


Surrender My Bones

by CinnaAtHeart



Series: Surrender My Bones (to the cold grey earth) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Elements of CA:TWS, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Slow Burn, Steve fell off the train with bucky, super duper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After ten years scouring The Wastes, Darcy Lewis thought she'd seen everything the wreckage of inland America has to offer. Seeking the trail of dirty magic a lone Shade leaves behind is old hat now. Setting up the traps to bait them into and tear apart their magic is so predictable it’s almost boring. Darcy never thought a job like hers could get boring, but hey, apparently there’s a first time for everything.</p><p>Then again, ever since the world turned to shit, most first times have been and gone.</p><p>Or so she'd thought.<br/>--<br/>In which Darcy Lewis hunts the Wastes of North America, and stumbles across more than she ever bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [These Words are Knives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529152) by [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart). 



> So, this is kind of heavy on the AU, BUT its main differences from MCU canon falls down to three pivotal but fairly minor changes.  
> 1- Steve fell from the train with Bucky. Hydra was instead defeated by Peggy and the remaining Howling Commandos.  
> 2- Loki was never touched by a Frost Giant in the first Thor film and therefore never discovering his true heritage.  
> 3- Mjolnir fell to Earth further away than in the first Thor film, therefore Thor never found it. 
> 
> The vast majority of canonical differences to the MCU (excluding The Turning itself) can be explained by these three changes. 
> 
> The Turning occurs in 2013, wiping out large swathes of life across (presumably) the globe. It is unknown what caused this event.

( _fanfic cover by Romanoffsbite -[tumblr ](http://romanoffsbite.tumblr.com/)\- [post ](http://romanoffsbite.tumblr.com/post/140773549774/surrender-my-bones-cinnaatheart-after-ten)_ )

 

They call her ‘The Wanderer’, amongst the circles she comes in contact with.

There’s a mythos attached to her name, she knows. A mystery to her reputation that she won’t lie about cultivating. It comes in useful more than once, and she finds she rather likes the awe and intimidation her presence elicits. So yes… perhaps she turns up the scowl, and makes herself a little more broody- a little more rude and brusque- when she’s in the settlements with those she doesn’t know. The trophies she brings back garner her the respect, but she knows that for many, it’s the attitude that lets her keep it.

It’s dangerous, out there in the wastes. Everyone knows it. And it’s worse if you’re alone; the loners go first, always. It’s the way of things; you hunt alone, you die alone. Safety in numbers, above all else.

But Darcy is different. Has always been different. Stronger, faster, hardier, more fierce, and maybe just a touch too ruthless. Once, they’d have pinned her as a mutant; now- were it not for the legend card- they’d pin her as a freak. Another monster to be destroyed. It’s part of why she travels alone. But her resilience suits her well, out in the wastes. She seeks companionship only when in need of food, water, supplies and occasionally, a good fuck. Elsewise she leaves the settlements for the settled. She doesn’t belong there, not anymore. Doesn’t exactly want to, either. Would rather hunt The Wastes for the real monsters; make the world a little safer with each speck of blood and dirty magic that stains her hands.

 

 

They call her The _Wanderer_ , but Darcy Lewis is no true wanderer.

She knows where her feet take her. Knows the dirt roads and half-dead scrub lands like few others. Knows the smell of death in the air, and the wavering wails of a Shade. She knows how to track, how to hunt, how to kill. Her movements have purpose- conserving energy is the true game out in The Deep, where the sun can kill you in a matter of hours and the twisted creatures that roam the dustbowl will sniff you out and swallow you whole in a heartbeat.

 

 

They call her _The_ Wanderer, but Darcy remembers a time when she was not one, but three. She remembers Jane, and Thor. Long gone now, but never forgotten.

She remembers Jane’s swelling belly; Thor’s joy and fear. She remembers the struggle of finding more food, the mind-numbing boredom of their short time in New-Triskelion- one of the few peaceful and ordered settlements left in the South. She remembers Jane’s smile, and her cautious optimism, and the growing pit of despair that welled in her stomach as the other woman grew large and fat with child.

And above all, she remembers the screaming. The bloodless face and a squalling life that lasts barely hours.

She remembers Thor, wasting away back on the road, weakening, finally _defeated_ by a L2 Shade somewhere in what was once called New Mexico, where Jane ran him over what felt like centuries ago.

She cannot forget the silence, the mound of rocks she placed over his cooled body, and the stench of burning flesh from the pyre she made of the monster that felled her final friend.

And then, she left.

She had not looked back.

 

 

Darcy’s days always begin the same way.

She wakes in the late afternoon; shakes the aches from her bones, banishes the uneasy dreams and exercises her body and mind. She eats, scours the camp for things left behind, or anything of value she can take with her. And then she begins her hunt.

Hunting a Shade is… well, not easy, per se, but by this point, certainly routine.

After ten years of scouring the wastes- seven of which were spent alone- she’s come across almost all the wreckage inland America has to offer. Seeking the trail of dirty magic a lone Shade leaves behind is old hat now. Setting up the traps to bait them into and tear apart their magic is so predictable it’s almost boring. Darcy never thought a job like hers could get boring, but hey, apparently there’s a first time for everything.

Then again, ever since the world turned to shit, most first times have been and gone.

Darcy tends to hunt in the Deep Wastes- happy to leave the outer edges, where most people now live, for the rookies, and those with more to lose. The bigger game lives inland, out in The Deep where the dirty magics are strongest.

She likes the solitude of The Deep, anyway. Likes the ruins of the old world; the hollowed out husks of towns she comes across- though she avoids the spiny horizons of the distant, emptied cities. Too many restless spirits to hide from; too many lives turned to dust for even a seasoned veteran like Darcy to dare go near. The cities breed Shades like nobody’s business anyway, and Darcy is entirely uninterested in partaking in suicide missions where she can help it.

But even the towns can be challenging. The Shades are like carrion birds; feeding from the souls left behind by The Turning, attracted to areas of power like moths to a flame. They consume all they can, and when they’re done, they leave for greener pastures. Most towns closer to the settlements- where The Turning was weaker- are long since consumed of anything of value, but the deeper you go, the more destruction The Turning wrought, and the ‘greener’ the lands. The spaces in between are as dry of value as the land itself. It’s her preferred place of rest.

Darcy finds the trail of a low L4 Shade along the ruined highway ten miles out of Buffalo, Missouri. She smiles when she feels the first stirrings of its wake; its presence confirmed shortly after by the soft beeping of one of Jane’s machines- one of the few remaining mementos of the woman that by some miracle still work, seven years after her death.

She stops the car. Gets out to stand on the sun baked and sand-blown asphalt and closes her eyes.

It’s still plenty bright enough for the sun to glow through the thin skin of her eyelids and there’s sweat dribbling down her back, but Darcy is well practiced in impromptu meditation. She breathes in deeply. Feels the influx of energy flow inside and lets it leave as easily as it came as she breathes out. She does it again and again, the familiar sensation of something close to hyperventilating resting beneath her skin, feels herself become saturated with oxygen and magic, until finally, it feels as though she’s on the verge of growing dizzy with it. She holds herself there, lets the power bubble beneath her skin. She searches within herself for the taint- the off taste of blood and pain and dying screams that every Shade leaves an imprint of.

_There_.

She breathes out slowly, and lets everything but the taint and a little of the pure magic leave. When she reopens her eyes, she knows exactly where her trail leads her- into Buffalo (no surprise, but it always pays to double check) and then beyond, already finished with what it could find there. She lets the smile grow a little more and opens her eyes, turning around and hopping back into the truck.

Darcy drives through to the empty town, the setting sun reflecting through her rear vision mirror and catching in her eyes. She sings made up lyrics to a half-remembered song, uncaring that her voice fails to reach the appropriate high notes, or that she’s forgotten exactly how the riff in the middle goes.

Buffalo draws closer and she stops at the first good-sized house she passes, just outside the tow limits. Its architecture is reminiscent of the 1960s and she smiles in satisfaction that the sight, pulling into the driveway and killing the engine again. A rusted station-wagon sits in the space beside her, sick-looking grass tangled in the fender and the decaying tyres. The windows- most still unbroken- are growing an impressive collection of lichen and dust. She’ll see if it’s any good for gas later.

The slam of her door echoes down the street but she pays it no mind- there’s no Shade here; only dust and forgotten homesteads. She makes her way around the back, hooking her machete into her belt and navigates the dry grass as tall as her hip, making sure to stomp loudly to scare away any snakes.

The back yard is a familiar sight- rusted shed and long-dead gardens. A wooden fence leans precariously to one side, its poles rotten and grey. Her eyes catch on the bright wreckage of a playset on the porch- yellows and blues bleached by a decade in the sun, and a long strand of rope swings eerily from a single tree that still manages to cling to life. She sighs heavily and bypasses the house entirely for now.

What she’s searching for is a fallout shelter.

Logically, the shed is her best bet. The metal door is rusted shut, but several judicious whacks with the butt of her machete to the hinges and cheap combination lock allow her to pry the door open. It’s a good sized shed- big enough to hold all manner of things, but the space is oddly barren.

Darcy frowns at the sight- sheds aren’t made to be empty things- and no house with children would have kept one empty, old fallout shelter or not. She ventures inside, the smell of dust and decay overwhelmingly strong.

There’s a mound of _something_ lying in the far corner. _A body_ , she realises as she draws closer. The sight of the dried out corpse doesn’t surprise Darcy- they’re as common as grains of sand out in the Deep- but the sight of the open trapdoor at his feet is new. Just like the shed itself, the trapdoor is large- a two door contraption raised from the ground. One of them is opened outwards, the other still sits closed, as though the man had died trying to escape the shelter in a hurry.

She hums, curious, and kneels by the body. The clothing of the corpse is oddly militaristic- black beneath all the dust and grime- and his boots are thick and chunky. A gun lies just out of his reach.

Cautiously, she rolls him over. The cadaver is light and brittle, baked and dried from a decade of relentless summer. She sucks in a dusty breath at the embroidered symbol on his jacket.

A stylized eagle, wings outstretched.

“Holy shit.” She breathes in shock.

_SHIELD_.

“What in the ever-living _fuck_ were you lot doing _here?_ ”

She remembers them- how could she forget? A heavy handed paramilitary organisation with unclear interests in Jane’s work and Thor. Jane liked to call them jack-booted thugs. Clint, Phil and Natasha used to work for them, but just like everything else, they’d gone up in smoke after The Turning.

Intrigued now, she straightens. Checks the stairs, but they’re concrete and unlikely to have deteriorated. She turns and leaves, back to her truck to grab her old lantern and backpack. She doesn’t know what’s down there, but being prepared hasn’t failed her yet. Darcy takes a moment to check the air before returns to the shelter, seeking any hints of an approaching Shade, but there’s nothing.

She notices the change in temperature the moment she takes a step through the metal doors. And maybe she’s only imagining it, but it’s almost like wading into a pool of icy water. The sensation of the shelter closing in over her head is unnerving in a way that Darcy hasn’t felt in months.

She grips her lantern a little tighter.

The stairs seem to go on forever, deeper and deeper into the earth, and Darcy grows more convinced that this is not your usual fallout shelter. Most homes could only ever afford shelters just a few feet below the surface, and there’s a certain clinical feel to the place- something impersonal and _wrong_ about the concrete walls.

There is a long line of light switches at the bottom of the stairs- experimentally, she flicks them all on, not exactly expecting anything to happen.

The responding hum of ventilation systems activating and the sluggish flicker of fluorescent lights turning on is a surprise that she’s not sure is pleasant or unsettling. _Must be attached to a generator or solar panels_ , she reasons as chills run up and down her spine. The corridor seems even starker under the bright lights, and she cuts off the flame in her lantern cautiously. There are no bodies down here, but the whole place puts her on edge anyway. She ventures down the corridor, trying out the first door she comes across. It leads to another corridor, and more doors- some open, some closed.

“A regular fucking rabbit warren,” she remarks to herself. She swallows back the uneasiness and slips through the door, intent on exploring every inch of this place. SHIELD wouldn’t have a facility here in _Buffalo_ for nothing, and she couldn’t live with herself if she never investigated the underground facility further.

The first true room she checks is an armoury. She lets out a low whistle at the sight of rows upon rows of weaponry, impresses despite herself. The tactical gear alone would fetch a pretty penny were she to take it back with her to any of the settlements. The guns themselves, coupled with piles upon piles of ammunitions could theoretically set her up for life.

There is no way in _hell_ she’s ever telling anyone about this place.

She leaves the armoury for now, but not without picking up a handgun and a good collection of bullets. Uneasiness aside, it’s not as though she’s expecting trouble, but she’d much rather be prepared for it than not.

Darcy checks all the rooms with doors she can open- some are offices, filled with paper files or computers. She takes a mental note of the small mess hall- there’s possibly a serviceable collection of canned goods there, and things like cutlery can always be salvaged for scrap metal back in the settlements. Darcy is slightly relieved though, that she’s yet to come across any more bodies. The facility must have been in the process of abandonment when The Turning happened.

At the end of the second hall is another set of stairs, leading downwards. The stairwell is dark- a single light in the wall flickers, struggling to turn on. She follows them- it’s only one floor down, but whatever lights are here evidently aren’t on the same switch as the ones upstairs.

In the weak glimmers of light from the wall, she can make out a heavy iron door- also ajar- and a series of glowing lights from what she presumes are computers within. If they needed to be kept on, it explains why the power could still run. She edges around it and into the room below. Blindly, she runs her hand across the wall, searching for another light switch.

Her fingers skim across hard plastic. She presses down and the lights flick on- faster than those upstairs. The sudden change in brightness is blinding, and Darcy has to take a moment to blink away the black spots in her vision.

There is another body in here, slumped against a wall beside a long line of computer monitors and rusted twirly chairs. She startles at the sight against her will, but is proud that she doesn’t yelp. It’s a scientist, she suspects- not because of any stereotypical clothing they wear, but simply because they’re not in combat gear. She swallows, and crouches down beside them. The stained plaid shirt reminds her of Jane, but the size of their shoes suggests it’s a man that died down here. She takes a whiff of the air- it smells surprisingly clean; no scent of decay or stale air.

“Ventilation system,” she notes to herself. Sure enough, if she listens carefully she can just make out the all but silent hum of the life support. It’s a miracle nothing’s found this place. She moves to stand, but catches sight of something smooth and shiny out of the corner of her eye, reflecting the bleak light of the lights back at her.

_A tablet_.

Darcy reaches for it without really thinking- there’s _no way_ it can possibly still work, but she hasn’t seen one in _years_ and the thought of putting her hands on one sends a wave of nostalgia through her so strong it leaves her slightly dizzy. The ancient piece of technology feels cool beneath the endless layers of dust, and the weight of it- oddly heavy- almost sends her reeling back to her college days, and the StarkPad she’d bought second-hand from a cousin. She pulls it away from the body but it snags on something, and belatedly she realises that it’s _still attached to the wall_.

She laughs at the realisation- a little hysterical. Reaches forwards to disconnect it from its charger. _God_ , the thought of it being on charge for a whole _decade_ has her unexpectedly emotional.

She wipes away the worst of the dust with the long sleeve of her shirt, hardly daring to hope. Touches the button on the side. Her heart feels as though it’s trying to slam its way out of her chest.

The screen turns on.

Darcy _cries._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE MOST AMAZING fanfic cover art is by Romanoffsbite! Find them on [tumblr ](http://romanoffsbite.tumblr.com/) and the original post [here](http://romanoffsbite.tumblr.com/post/140773549774/surrender-my-bones-cinnaatheart-after-ten)


	2. Cryogenics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy has a few revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic got some MASSIVE love in my collection of shorts (These Words are Knives), but honestly I was going to put it up anyway, 'cause I've been not-so-secretly puttering away at it for a while. So here you go! Chapter two!

She doesn’t know how long it takes for her to get her emotions back under control, but when she does, she realises that the tablet has a PIN. The discovery has her raging for a long moment, and she has to put the fragile device on the ground lest she break it. She pulls the charger out of the wall and places it and the tablet on the bench beneath the computer screens- she’s certain she can find someone who could unlock it for her back at New-Triskelion.

The computers are still on, and when she toggles the mouse, the screens come to life. Some of them are black- clearly broken, but there’s enough for her to use. The computers at least, don’t appear to be locked and she breathes out shakily at the knowledge.

There is a long window of glass above the computer, but the room behind it is dark. She returns her focus back to the computers for now, picking out what she thinks the scientist must have last used, and sits gingerly down on one of the aged chairs. It holds her weight, thought the seat wobbles precariously.

“Let’s see what secrets you hold,” Darcy murmurs. Her voice feels disconcertingly loud in the computer room, and the slumped corpse sits just in the corner of her eye, as though watching her. She ignores it resolutely and pulls up the only open program. It’s a minute-taking document of some kind, and she sucks in a shocked breath at the last dated entry.

_August 18 th, 2013_

Three days after The Turning. Her hand begins to shake. _Christ_ , this guy lived through The Turning, out here in The Deep. They must be further underground that she’d first thought.

She turns to the other dated folders, picking out August 15th with ease and clicks on it. There’s a moments lag, and then text appears on the window.

_1348 hours_

_Something’s happened. There was a loud and thunderous boom heard from above ground- down here it felt as though the Earth was trying to shake itself apart. Inspection of the tanks found minimal damage- loosened connections were repaired. The assets continue their sleep._

_I sent Agent Partridge up to the surface to investigate the disturbance, but he did not return._

And then, two hours later;

_Head command is down; no one is answering calls. Partridge is still yet to return. I have locked the bunker for now, but I may need to go upstairs myself to try phoning in tomorrow morning._

She huffs. Agent Partridge must have been the man in the shed. Poor bastard- that close to the first blasts and he would have died almost instantly. She opens up the entry for the next day, dreading what must come next.

_0650 hours_

_The sky is on fire._

_I don’t know what’s happened, but there are flames in the distance and the smoke is so thick in the air it looks like the late evening. Whatever has happened, it killed Agent Partridge- the bastard looks like he’d boiled in his skin. I tried to get to the house, but the heat and smoke was so intense that I was forced to return to the bunker lest I suffocate. I closed the doors. We must wait this out._

Then, almost six hours later there is another entry;

_I feel ill; I started vomiting violently twenty minutes ago. I fear it’s radiation sickness. There may be iodine tablets in the house, but I remember reading about the symptoms; I fear I may have already reached the point of no return._

She clicks through the following entries, each documenting the scientist’s deteriorating health. Every now and then, he mentions ‘The Assets’ or ‘The Soldiers’, which confuses Darcy; she’s not sure if he’s speaking in euphemisms, or who he’s referring to, because as far as she gleans from his notes, it was only him and Partridge on base.

Eventually, she reaches the final entry.

_I am all but dead. There is still no response from head command. I fear the world has truly ended._

_I don’t know what to do with The Soldiers- perhaps I should just let them sleep. Their units could theoretically remain functional for decades without maintenance. Security protocols mean nothing now._

_Cut off one head and two more shall take its place seems rather inconsequential. The wounds have been cauterised._

_Hail Hydra all the same._

Darcy mouths the final words in shock.

_Hydra_ , not SHIELD.

She remembers reading about Hydra, back when she was in College. Captain America’s greatest foe. The organisation that sent him and his companion to his death in 1945. But it was a dead organisation- the Red Skull had been killed by Agent Carter and the remaining members of the Howling Commandos.

“Guess they had a few skeletons in their closet,” she murmurs, eyes rising up to stare curiously at the darkened glass behind the computer screens. She can’t make out anything more than a few blinking lights, but there’s a door at the end of the room that she’s certain leads into it. She tries the handle, and with a little shoving, the door opens with a resentful creak.

If possible, the air inside is even cleaner than the computer room- and the hum and whir of machinery sounds deafening compared to the silence of the rest of the base. Only a little light leaks through the window- enough to make out the great hulking shapes of two tables and a light switch within easy reach. They flicker when she hits it, but mercifully stabilise quickly enough.

The tables aren’t tables, she realises, but two identical containers. Sitting side by side, they’re at least eight foot long a piece, and half as wide. Both have a line of green, blue and red lights down their left sides and they look like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. A long panel of thick glass is inserted into the top, and when she draws closer she realises in horror that there are _bodies_ inside.

“Holy _shit_.”

There’s a man in each of the containers- no, not containers, _sarcophagi_. Eyes closed, faces blank beneath their oxygen masks, they look like modern, fucked up versions of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. The glass, when she touches it, is cool but not cold, but she’d bet her truck they’re frozen inside- it’s the only way they could be intact after a decade. _Must be double glazed_ , she thinks, _at least._

They must be the soldiers the scientist talked about. Both wear nothing but a pair of briefs and there are IV lines inserted into the veins of their necks, knees and the creases of their elbows, and what must be electrodes stuck to their chests and foreheads.

They look so _pale_ ; bloodless.

She bites her lip, troubled. He’d said they were _sleeping_. She touches the glass above the face of one of the men. His brown hair is long, lying about his pale and unshaven face. He looks as though he would be quite handsome. He has a metal arm- it shines brightly in the artificial light, and there is a five pointed star etched into outer surface of the glass. The other man is much the same- pale faced and blonde, he’s a little beefier than his companion. A circle is etched in his glass, filled in with a smaller circle. Beneath the oxygen mask, he looks… familiar, in that charming-yet-conventional boy-next-door kind of way.

Darcy runs her fingers over the line of lights on his cryochamber. She feels melancholic. Do they know what happened to them? Did they consent? Knowing Hydra the answer is possibly no. Are they stuck in a state of nonexistence? Neither alive (because _surely_ their hearts aren’t beating) nor dead (because she’s all but certain these are life support systems, like something straight out of a sci-fi flick). Can they feel? Do they dream? Or are they simply stuck in an icy limbo? What would it feel like, to wake after being frozen for so long?

Would they even wake, come to think of it. The scientist’s notes suggested they’re meant to, but it’s been ten years, _plus_ who knows how long since they were put into those tanks.

Darcy glances at the window, thoughtful.

But no….

Could she? _Should_ she?

She shouldn’t. There’s every possibility she couldn’t, even if she tried.

But supposing…

_No._ She didn’t have the right to bring them into this kind of world.

But… does she _really_ have the right to leave them here? ‘Asleep’ or not, it’s all but guaranteed this base will remain undiscovered for decades to come. And machinery breaks- it fails. Sooner or later, their life support will fail, and they’ll die. And that will be on Darcy. If she leaves, then one way or another, she is condemning two men to death.

She turns back to the cryochambers. _They’re Hydra_ , she reminds herself. But what does that even mean? They don’t _look_ like they’re evil- not that that should really mean anything. But maybe they’re not here of their own free will. Maybe they’re _prisoners_. And if they’re not, she could always shoot them before they wake proper. She splays a hand over the glass above the blonde’s heart, as though she can sense his non-existent pulse through the insulated window.

“There’s no harm in checking the system,” she murmurs. No one replies, but she’s not exactly expecting an answer.

She leaves them, returning to the computers. There’s bound to be information on them in here- at the very least on how to operate the cryochambers. She starts off simple, pulling up the file commander and searching the word ‘soldiers’, but there are too many results for her to find anything of substance. ‘Assets’ has a similar result- turns out, ‘asset’ is Hydra’s preferred term for people who were useful to them- which is not so useful to Darcy.

‘Cryogenics’ has a better result- she manages to pull up a few files with the phrase in the name and easily traces them back to their origin folders. She strikes gold here- there’s piles upon piles of information on the cryochambers. She even manages to find a few files that talk explicitly about their inhabitants, though they are only ever referred to as ‘The Soldier’ and ‘The Captain’.

Granted, a lot of it Darcy doesn’t entirely understand, but there’s enough for her to make a fairly confident judgement as to how to wake them. The sarcophagi are largely automated; all she needs to do is activate the waking sequence, and the machines will take care of the rest; defrosting them slowly over a period of twenty-four hours and leaving them ‘ready for calibration’ by the twenty-eight hour mark. Whatever _that_ means.

 It almost feels too good to be true. Then again, a great deal of today seems too good to be true, if she’s honest. The files aren’t even password protected, for fucks sake. And Darcy’s not lived this long out in the Wastes without some degree of wariness.

So she reads. She reads and reads and _reads_ , until her eyes are watering, and her hands ache and there’s a knot forming in the space between her shoulders. She doesn’t know what time it is when she finally takes a break (and she’s not certain the clock on the computer is completely accurate), but she’s certain it must be late into the night. She’s gleaned as much as she can from the files by then- she knows how the machines work and how they were made, she knows the defrosting sequence and she has a basic knowledge of what she can do if there’s an error in the procedure or how to reverse it and refreeze them.

She even manages to find a number of files on the Soldiers. Their histories are patchy- their origins non-existent- but she reads enough to learn that cryogenics must have been around for a great deal longer than she was led to believe they were, back in 2013. Judging from the information she can find, she suspects they’re not here of their own free will, which is a relief in all the wrong kinds of ways.

Throwaway phrase like ‘calibration’ and ‘prepared for maintenance’ litter their reports, thrown around as though they have any business being there whilst they talk about real live human beings. As though they’re nothing but machines, meant to be used and put away back on the shelf after use. Like they could just be taken apart and recycled.

A lot of the reports make her feel a little ill.

She skims over their mission reports (the writing is strange, oddly stilted in places, as though translated, and it makes it difficult for Darcy to concentrate)- focussing mainly on the behaviour sections. There’s enough information in them to get a good idea of the ‘value’ to Hydra, and the thought has her feeling inordinately depressed.

The Captain- the blonde man- is listed as unstable; unviable for missions longer than about five days before his programming regresses. Mostly he seems reserved for large scale assignments. The Soldier is better suited for long-term operations, covert ops and the like, but only when ‘wiped’ before use- whatever that means (and Darcy is fairly sure she _doesn’t_ want to know)- and the Captain is kept out of his sight. She finds one report on Hydra pairing them together- the fatalities on both sides are staggering, and she grimly reads in bold print the suggestion to never pair them together again unless armed with sedatives.

The more she reads, the more certain she becomes that they’re not here of their own free will.

Darcy sighs heavily and slouches in the ancient chair. From where she sits, all she can see through the observation window is the ceiling. She can almost fool herself into thinking that there’s nothing important in the room beyond. She finds herself questioning her decision once again. There’s no guarantee that things will pan out well if she wakes them, and doing so could easily spell her doom.

But leaving them alone guarantees their deaths. And it feels cruel to leave them here, after being prisoners of Hydra for so long. Why leave them prisoners for the rest of eternity?

She glances at the little time stamp in the upper corner of the screen. 0438. The process of defrosting them with minimum cell damage takes upwards of twenty-eight hours. It would pay to get up and start it now. She pulls herself up with muscles that feel stiff and tired, and she has a brief recollection of feeling the same at the end of her semesters. _God_ , it’s been an absolute _age_ since she’s even sat in a computer chair. A long time indeed.

Darcy shuffles into the other room, moving to the Soldier’s life support first.

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs to him, and she taps on the glass above his heart for good luck. She turns to the series of buttons beside his head.

_Prime_ \- she presses it in. The lights down the side of his glorified coffin slowly begin changing from green to blue. The humming of the machine grows louder as the mechanisms inside ready themselves for use. It takes maybe a minute, and when it’s ready, she pressed in the buttons saying _Thaw_ and _start_. A countdown appears on the small LED panel next to her hand; _28:00_ it reads, and beneath it the first of many indicator lights switches on.

“Foolproof cryogenics,” she laughs, feeling unnecessarily self-important. “Who’d have fucking thought.”

It makes sense though; what if they needed the soldiers and didn’t have the technicians? It made their scope of practicality far smaller.

Satisfied with the Soldier, she moves onto the other cryochamber. The Captain is just as familiar as before- recognition sitting just out of reach, and she activates the machinery with maybe a little more force than is necessary. The machine at least, doesn’t complain.

When all is said and done, she stands back. Darcy feels oddly put out- the whole thing was so uneventful; she kind of expected something to go spectacularly wrong, right off the bat, and now she’s oddly off-kilter by it all.

“What the fuck do I do now?”

The men don’t answer. She groans. She could do and finish off that Shade- the one she’d been hunting at the start of all this. But with the cryochambers at least a decade old, she’s acutely aware that the probability for failure is pretty high, and she’s not particularly keen on leaving them to their own devices.

She should at least go back outside- make sure the place is clear of Shades before they sense her. The last thing Darcy wants is to wake the soldiers and be slaughtered the moment they go outside. And she still hasn’t finished exploring the place; there’s still half the base upstairs she needs to investigate. Possibly even more.

She nods decisively and taps at the foot of the Captain’s cryochamber, “Look after each other. No fighting.”

And then she turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've got any questions at all about this 'verse, don't hesitate leave a comment, or you can come and message me on tumblr :3


	3. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wakey Wakey, eggs and bakey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I should make it clear, for the purpose of this fic, Darcy doesn't actually know who the men in cryosleep are. There are a few good reasons for her not putting two and two together...  
> 1\. Because Steve fell from the train, the course of history obviously went a little differently, and although Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are considered heroes, it's Peggy and the Howling commandos who ended up taking center stage in the history books. And lets face it, Darcy totally have had a historical crush on Peggy Carter rather than Captain America or Bucky Barnes.  
> 2\. Most of what Darcy knows about Captain America comes from her exposure to the icon- particularly through media such as cartoons, comics and movies. Therefore she wouldn't be able to recognise Steve or Bucky right off the bat- their faces are not familiar to her.  
> 3\. The last time she would have seen a picture of Steve or Bucky would have been at least ten years ago, but likely to be closer to fifteen. That is a long time in the scheme of things. Long enough for her to forget.  
> 4\. Whilst in the cryochambers, the lower half of their faces are covered by 'oxygen masks'. Kind of hard to tell anyone apart with those in the way...

Darcy is bored.

So very, _very_ bored.

The countdown clock has read six hours for what seems like _forever_ , and the impatience that used to typify her before the Turning resurfaced at the eight hour mark. She just wants her boys to wake (at some point in the last ten hours, they’d been promoted. Her lost boys seemed appropriate, though she’s aware that it’s inappropriately proprietary), curiosity so strong it’s almost painful. She wonders what they’re like; what they sound like; how they move; what they can do. She’s almost desperate to know if they’re actually evil or not- victims of Hydra be damned.

On the plus side- much like it did when she was younger- her impatience has improved her productivity. In the past twenty-two hours, she’s slept a good six hours, taken a basic inventory of the facility (or at least, every room she can open) and the adjoining house- which has a few interesting things inside, but seems mostly reserved as a façade for the ventilation system of the underground base. She’s read even more from the database, raided the surrounding houses for items of use, and retrieved a good amount of gas for the truck- enough to keep her going for a weeks or so, at least.

Darcy returns to the cryochambers for this though; the moment when- according to the Hydra files- the machines restart the soldiers’ hearts.

In the scheme of things, if feels like a pretty momentous occasion- like Dr Frankenstein creating life from death. She’s sitting cross-legged on the foot of the Soldier’s sarcophagi, waiting as patiently as she’s able when she hears the first warning sound- a soft klaxon that makes her jump. She slides off the machine, not sure if she needs to be clear or not.

The klaxon sounds again, but there’s no error message and she passes it off as normal. The cryochamber almost seems to vibrate for a moment, and Darcy watches with a morbid kind of fascination as the Soldier’s body twitches, chest rising and falling back in a way that’s vaguely reminiscent of the medical drama’s she used to watch.

The countdown numbers on the screen shrink, replaced by a thick line that does not move. Darcy bites at her lip, but she refuses to entertain the possibility of this not working.

“Come on, you pretty bastard,” she says in encouragement. The body twitches again, and she worries at the hem of her shirt, _waiting_.

_Beep_.

The line on the screen spasms- a heartbeat- and Darcy’s lungs seem to expel themselves in one fell swoop. She leans heavily against the glass, hands splayed out above his right arm and leg. “Thank God.”

She waits for the next one, but it seems a long time coming. She counts the seconds- four, five, six, seven- the moment grows longer and _longer_. She almost panics, but forces herself to be calm with several deep breaths. The cryochamber isn’t kicking up a fuss, and Darcy pins it down as normal. And then the klaxon is going off on the Captain’s chamber and she finds herself running over to watch the resurrection all over again.

\--

T-minus ten minutes and counting.

Eight minutes.

Seven minutes.

Darcy resorts to reading out loud one of the few remaining books she’d found in the attached house. It’s a sordid romance novel, and frankly, the disparity of its genre on a goddamn _Hydra_ base is the only reason she picked it up.

Six minutes.

The protagonist’s name is Anastasia and the writing is painfully, ludicrously florid.

Five minutes.

Her leg develops a nervous jig. She’s only now starting to think about _how_ exactly she’s going to greet the soldiers when they wake. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But she couldn’t on a good conscience leave them to wake alone- not out in the Deep, where they could snapped up by any wandering Shade.

And then it doesn’t really matter, because there’s the sound of something breaking and the next thing she knows she’s up against a cold concrete wall with something hard and icy pinning her there by the neck.

She gasps in shock- or tries to- and stares into wild blue eyes hidden behind a mess of brown hair. Her hands scrabble across the smooth surface of his arm, trying to pry him away but he’s strong- stronger than her. She pulls up her knee instead, aiming for his crotch, but he growls at her and pulls his body out of the way.

“кто ты?” he snarls, lips curling back over straight white teeth. She hits him in the ribcage- hard enough to have broken a regular human’s ribs, she _knows_. The man barely flinches. She wheezes at him ineffectually when he slams her arm into the wall and repeats himself.

“останавливать,” Another voice says, deep and commanding. “ты разобьешь ее.”

The man scowls at her, but the forearm pressed against her windpipe eases slightly. She glances past him to the blonde man- also out of his sarcophagi. His eyes are intense, but the expression on his face is cool and unreadable. He seems the more stable of the two- or at the very least, more collected.

“English?” she gasps at him. Something flickers across his face for a moment- too quick for her to catch.

“We speak it,” he says slowly, accent clear and oddly reminiscent of her time in New York, back when she was small. Darcy valiantly tries to ignore the man pressed up against her, emanating anger and menace like a furnace. Neither seem to care that all they wear are a pair of criminally small briefs. “Who are you?”

She swallows, “My name is Darcy Lewis. The year is 2023, and I found you in this old Hydra base.”

“2023?” the man asks her sharply, “So long?”

She gives a shaky laugh, “There’s not exactly been anyone around to remember you.”

“What does that mean?” the Soldier growls. The gears inside his arm whir menacingly.

She bares her teeth at him, “It means the world _ended_. You pair were- _are_ \- out in the Deep. Anyone who lived here died long ago, including your ‘caretakers’; and I use the term caretaker _very_ lightly.”

The expression on the Soldier’s face doesn’t change, but the Captain’s eyes widen for the briefest of moments. “You’re lying.”

She glares at him. This was definitely a mistake- curse her curiosity and need to be a hero. “Why the fuck would I lie? Pretty hard to fake the end of the world.”

They’re both silent at that, chewing on her answer.

“Why are you here?” the Soldier asks eventually. “Why did you wake us.”

“I was hunting,” she says slowly, working on regulating her breathing, though her heart is beating hard enough to almost drown out her words. The adrenalin is a heady thing, “Looking for a- a monster. I was just passing through- searching for supplies before moving on- but I found the base. I found you two hidden away; just _forgotten_.”

“So you woke us.”  Beneath the inflectionless tone, the Captain almost sounds incredulous.

She nods as much as she’s able. “I couldn’t leave you be. Sooner or later your life-support would have failed.”

The Soldier stares at her intently. “You’re not Hydra.”

She flinches. “ _Fuck_ no!”

“Then you were not authorised.”

She growls at him, “The world _ended,_ Soldier. Whatever remnants of Hydra that existed were burnt away in the Turning. There’s no such thing as ‘authority’ anymore. These days you’re lucky to come across a settlement with a _mayor_. Fuck authorisation; I did what I thought was right and woke you up before those _things-_ ” she waves at the broken cryochambers with her unrestrained hand- _Christ_ , but didn’t they make an entrance, “-broke down and killed you.”

He breathes out slowly. His arm whirs and he pulls away from her. Darcy breathes in deeply, tilting her head back to stare up at the ceiling. Her wrist throbs painfully- not broken, but she suspects it will be badly bruised before long, along with her throat.

“Prove it.”

She rolls her head to the Captain, eyeing him warily. The Soldier has retreated to stand beside him. They look tall and menacing and somewhat ridiculous. “Come again?”

“Prove it. You say the world ended. You say Hydra is gone- that it’s 2023.”

She coughs, throat feeling sore and abused. It wouldn’t be that hard, she thinks. It’s not as if Buffalo isn’t showing its age, and abandonment is a difficult thing to emulate to the extent most of The Deep is left in. All she’d have to do is take them topside- which she’d been planning anyway- give them a bit of a tour, maybe show off a few withered corpses, and then let them decide what they wanted to do with their newfound freedom.

“Okay,” she says, and glances down at the men’s impressive expanse of skin and muscle. It’s been a _long_ time since she last bothered to get laid. “But –uh- first, I think you should maybe put some clothes on.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> кто ты – who are you?
> 
> Останавливать – stop - ты разобьешь ее – You’ll break her.  
> (apparently. According to google translate)


	4. Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems like a shopping trip is in order....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! Woo! Here, have a chapter. It's a short one, but there's more and longer chapters to come :)
> 
> Thank-you to everyone for their love so far! It is unbelievably awesome to see just how keen people are to see more of this. You have me unbelievably excited to show you just where this is gonna go XD

The men are unnervingly silent.

They follow her through the Hydra base- like a pair of homicidal ducklings- and arm themselves to the teeth with one too many weapons for Darcy’s liking. But given that they’re yet to kill her, she’s not about to complain. She leads them up the stairs and into the empty shed with something akin to dread (but not quite); she doesn’t _think_ they’ll kill her and steal her truck, but it’s a near thing.

They regard the dried out corpse of Partridge emotionlessly; the Soldier pats him down as though he isn’t long dead, but there’s little of use on the man. She takes them outside, spreading her arms wide and spinning to demonstrate how much the world has gone to shit.

“No one lives here anymore,” she tells them. They stand just outside the shed, blinking furiously as they adjust to the blinding light of the midday sun, “Welcome to the Deep, where the houses are empty, the cans are a’plenty and the monsters will rip you in two and suck you dry quicker than you can say ‘hey, do you hear something?’”

The men don’t laugh. She shouldn’t be surprised, but for whatever reason she’d half expected to hear a disbelieving feminine giggle and the boom of too-loud laughter echoing though the yard. She sighs, turning away to head back to the truck and they follow behind her silently.

“What are your names?” she asks as she weaves through the long grass beside the empty house, “I looked for them on the computers, but I couldn’t find anything. I don’t think they were on the system.”

A lengthy pause. “We don’t have any.”

She bites her lip and tugs down the gate to the tray to toss in the decent selection of gear she’d taken from the armoury. “Well that’s bullshit,” she says unsteadily, unwilling to turn around and face the dead-faced men. There’s a familiarity to the pair of them out in the sunlight that she can’t quite put a finger on, and it’s starting to get on her nerves.

“Names beyond titles are unnecessary.”

“What, like Soldier and Captain?” she turns around finally to catch the Captain’s nod in affirmation. Darcy sighs heavily. “You gotta have a name out here; you’ll go mad elsewise. Or worse.”

The Soldier isn’t looking at her- he’s scanning the empty street suspiciously, blue eyes travelling from house to house as though expecting someone to jump out and yell ‘surprise’ at any moment- but she doesn’t think the Captain has taken his eyes off her since he woke. “Worse?” he asks. Darcy shrugs at him and turns back to close and secure the gate.

“Rule two- after don’t go out alone- don’t forget who you are. You forget that- forget what you’re out here for, and the Wastes’ll eat you up and spit you out as the exact thing you’ve been huntin’ in the first place.”

“You’re out here alone.”

She grips at the edge of the truck tightly. Feels hot metal dig into the fleshy part of her hand. How very astute of him.

“I’m different,” she grits out. “A special fucking snowflake.” She breathes in deep, letting the heat of the day scorch her lungs like a cleansing fire, “Now, did you two want a tour of the place on foot, or do you wanna travel in style?”

 

* * *

 

True to form so far, suspicion wins out and they decide that a tour should be taken on foot. Darcy feels a little bitter about it- it’s the middle of the day (she _should_ be sleeping), and the Wastes aren’t exactly known for their balmy daytime temperatures. She soaks through her shirt far quicker than she’d like, but finds solace in knowing that the soldiers in their tac gear are no better off.

“I told you you’d regret the bulletproof vests,” she needles the Captain. He scowls down at her, sweat dripping down his neck and into his collar, “There’s nothing here that can hurt you except Shades, and a bulletproof vest’ll do shit all against those suckers.”

“What _is_ a Shade?”

Darcy blinks in surprise; it’s the first thing the Soldier’s said to her in almost an hour- ever since he’d let her go. Her eyes slide over the gleaming metal of his left hand as he tucks his too-long hair behind an ear. It’s a surprisingly human gesture.

“They’re… leftovers from the Turning. Someone set the world ablaze; tore souls from bodies; corrupted the very essence of magic.” She motions to the baked earth and dead gardens of the houses they pass, “Fucked up the atmosphere, the climate; everything. It’s meant to be November, if I’ve got my months right, but these days you’re lucky to get a change in about five degrees from season to season.

“That’d make half the places out here uninhabitable as it is, but souls… they’re potent things. Get a decent collection of burnt-out souls and a spark or two of dirty magic and you’ve got a wee babbie Shade on your hands.”

She kicks at a tuft of grass they walk by; they’re starting to hit the town centre by now, and the view is just as dismal as it always is, “They’re grazers, primarily. They consume the wasted souls from the Turning- all the people who died in the bombings- and every morsel of magic they can find. The more they eat, the bigger they get, but they wouldn’t be that much of a problem were it not for the fact that they’re not picky. They’ll eat people just as eagerly as they’ll eat the Turning’s leftovers.”

“And you hunt them?” the Captain asks, “By yourself?”

She squints at him- if she didn’t know better, she’d say there’s a hint of disapproval in his voice, “Yeah, I hunt them. Someone’s got to; leave them to themselves and they’d consume the world. Been doing this for close to a decade now- I’m better suited for the job _alone_ than three-quarters of the rookies that go scavenging out in the Shallows for easy pickings.”

 _Dammit_ , but she sounds far more defensive that she needs to be.

She changes the subject instead, turning to point at the faded and peeling sign of a men’s clothing store, “So, regardless of what you two end up doing with yourselves, I’d suggest we go shopping. You’re going to need supplies and clothes if you don’t want to die out here.” She cuts the Captain off before he can say anything about the ‘adequacy of their clothing’, “I don’t care about how great you think camouflage is, out here, the reality is any old clothes will do, and in the settlements you’ll only draw unwanted attention to yourselves. Plus, you’re going to want socks and a few dozen changes of knickers. Trust me.”

He gazes at her, silent, before nodding slowly. She spares him a broad smile and he blinks, momentarily surprised. Something aches in her gut at the thought; how long has it been since someone last smiled at him?

She speeds up her pace, crossing the road to reach the men’s store. Darcy stoically ignores the crumpled heaps of bones, clothes and dried flesh sitting outside and gives the swinging door a forceful push. The aged hinges creak in protest- unused to opening – but Darcy is strong and easily wins the battle of wills. She holds the door open for the men, smiling. The both stare at her with expression bordering on disbelief.

She shrugs, “Most places aren’t locked.” She points to one of the bodies on the ground with her foot, “We got no warning; people just died where they stood. If they were lucky. There’ll probably be a few inside too.”

They nod at her in unison and she almost- _almost_ \- laughs, and file on through. Inside is dark and musty, the familiar smell of years old decay permeating every inch of the store; any and all clothes from here are going to have to be aired out for a while. She waits for her eyes to adjust to the change in light, and makes a beeline for the shirts section first.

“You’ll want a few lighter shirts- long-sleeved is best, trust me; unless you _want_ a t-shirt tan. If you’re going to go for dark stuff though, then for Christssake go for lightweight fabrics. You’ll thank me for it.” She starts pulling shirts off hangers, tossing them to the soldiers without bothering to see if they’re catching them. “It gets cold at night out here too, so you’ll want jackets, scarves; whatever the fuck you want to keep you warm.”

It does occur to her, as she’s sorting through jackets in search of something that has a hope of fitting across their ridiculous shoulders, that this may be a touch too much for them, having woken up not even two hours ago. Neither men have shown any major cracks to their stoic facades, but they’ve already proven they’re capable of thinking and acting for themselves, which is a relief. She knows they’ve been conditioned by Hydra- it had been glaringly obvious from their reports- but she also knows that she is sorely unprepared for dealing with any major problems they may bring when they _do_ break out of it.

She’ll deal with it when it turns up.

The soldier’s eyes lock onto a jacket she pulls out- a black and navy double breasted thing with a good amount of pockets. She raises a brow at him and holds it out; his metal arm shoots out to grab it.

“You like it?” the man doesn’t reply, but his eyes jump up from the jacket to her. Darcy grins. “Try it on,” she orders, and pushes it into his arms.

Woodenly, the Soldier complies. She and the Captain watch him wander over to the changing rooms, arms laden with shirts and the jacket. “That’ll keep him occupied for a while,” she remarks. The Captain grunts and turns away. He’s draped the clothes she’s handed off to him over one arm- the other is rifling through the selection of jackets. His hand catches on an imitation bomber jacket, long fingers rubbing at the sheepskin collar. He’s frowning at it like it’s done something to offend him.

“You alright there, Cap?”

“It’s wrong,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the back of the jacket. “There’s something missing [1].”

“Missing? Like what?”

He juts out his jaw in frustration, grip tightening on the leather. “I don’t know. I don’t… remember.”

She bites her lip, a thought occurring to her. “What _do_ you remember, Captain?” He turns to look at her, blue eyes so sharp they could tear right through her soul.

“Nothing,” he says, something like despair creeping into his voice. “I remember nothing. Nothing but-” he breaks off, glancing over to the changing rooms.

“Oh,” Darcy replies. She swallows.

She’s beginning to get the sense that these men are more than she can handle on her own.

 

[1] In reference to decorated USAF bomber jackets. See [here](http://io9.gizmodo.com/5966507/why-us-air-corps-servicemen-were-allowed-to-wear-such-badass-bomber-jackets-in-wwii/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... on a scale of one to ten, how interested would people be to have a world-building post for this verse? Or would you rather just wait for those kinds of things to be revealed as the chapters go on?


	5. Names

“Simon.”

“No.”

“Blair.”

“No”

“Jared?”

“…”

“Okay. So we’ll put that in the ‘maybe’ pile. Andrew?”

“нет.”

Darcy sighs heavily, “You gotta work with me here, Soldier. I can’t just keep on calling you that- it’s weird and kind of sad. How about Oliver?”

He glares at her flatly. The flick knife he’s playing with would be intimidating if Darcy hadn’t seen the almost worshipful way he’d pulled the thing out of the glass cabinet he’d smashed in that weapons store. And besides, it’d be suicide for them to kill her this far out in the Deep, with no ability to defend themselves from Shades. She spares another glance at the road- nothing to see but endless miles of scorched earth and the odd car, same as always.

“Jacob? Daniel? Gabriel?” he shrugs. She rolls her eyes. “Kevin? Jamie?… Evangeline?”

The Soldier pauses, still frowning, but it seems to be directed inwards. “I like… that one.”

“Uh- which one?”

“The last one… I think. Ev- Evan-”

“Evangeline?”

He nods, gaze focussed on his flick knife. Darcy swallows back the slightly hysterical giggle gathering at the back of her throat.

“Uh- you know I just said that one as a-” he looks up at her, and there’s something open and vulnerable in his expression that shuts her up. She clears her throat and stares out stoically at the road. The afternoon sun has reached the awkward point where it’s too low to be hidden by sun visor, and it glares into her eyes mercilessly. She feels like she’s being judged, which is ridiculous on so many levels. “Nevermind. Evangeline. That’s a- uh- that’s a good name. A nice name.”

His metal hand closes around his knife, and when she glances at him again, she catches just the barest hint of a smile. The tiny curl of his lips has her ribcage restricting in the most unreasonable way.

“Captain,” she says, in an attempt to mask the sensation. She watches the man in question straighten from her rearview mirror (he’d drawn the short straw). “What about you? Any ideas about what to name yourself?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Marcus?”

The Captain rolls his eyes. Darcy grins.

“Felix.”

“No.”

“Dominic.”

“Nein.”

“Alastair. Hamish. Anthony. Methuselah.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Will you just recite names until I choose one?”

“Yup,” she says, popping the ‘p’, “Zach. Flynn. Allison. Taylor… Lincoln? You look like you could be a Lincoln.”

“No I don’t.”

“You’re right. That was a dirty lie. How about Kevin.”

He crosses his arms. “How about no.”

The laugh barks out of her before she can think to stop it. “You always been this sassy, or is this a new development?”

He frowns at the mirror. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Это означает, что вы будучи мудак.” Evangeline growls.

The Captains eyes narrow and Darcy shakes her head in exasperation. “Man, you’re going to end up a pain in my ass, aren’t you.”

He juts out his jaw in challenge. “You tell me.”

Darcy snorts and keeps her eyes on the road. She’s got the feeling that one’s going to be trouble. She grins. “Max?”

“ _Non_.”

“Simon. Jason. Remus. Harry. Ron. Charlie. Fred or George?” Part of her weeps at the references that fly over their heads. “ _Ugh_ ,” she gripes, “You’re going to have to pick something soon, before I run out of names to pick. Quentin? Philip- wait no, I know a Phil. Casey. Roger. Davi-”

“Roger.”

She starts. She’d half expected him to settle on nothing at all. “Roger?”

He nods decisively. “It’s… familiar.”

Darcy taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “Evangeline and Roger. Roger and Evangeline… I like it.”

Her passengers are silent. Evangeline, when she looks at him, is still sporting that faint smile from before. It’s indescribably bizarre to see on his otherwise grim face.

“Where are we going?” Roger asks suddenly.

Darcy sighs. “New Triskelion. I can’t just tote you two around like a fashionable handbag out in the Deep. It’s suicide.”

Evangeline gives her the side-eye, “Why?”

“Why would it be suicide?” he nods. She motions out to the endless wastes they’re speeding through. “The Deep’s no place for a rookie, and you two are _worse_ than rookies.”

Roger stiffens in the back seat. Darcy rolls her eyes. “Look, no offence- I’m sure- _very_ sure- the pair of you are absolute badasses. At combat. But you know shit all about land magics, let alone dirty magic, don’t you?”

The pair of them shake their heads reluctantly. Darcy hums and raps her fingers on the steering wheel again. “You can’t just slum it out here and hope for the best; you gotta know your stuff. And that’s not even taking into account whether or not you want to actually make yourself into hunters. Which- okay, in hindsight, I probably should have asked you about this sooner.”

She turns to Evangeline. He’s playing with his flick knife again, and the competency with which he handles with the thing is very distracting. She swallows. “What do you two actually want to do with yourselves? I mean, yeah the world’s gone to shit since you were last awake, but you guys are still free. You can do whatever the fuck you want to- well, short of killing someone. Or- uh- world domination. I think that’s a little out of anyone’s league now.”

Roger is staring out at the cluster of empty cars she weaves through- their occupants as dead as the rest of the people out here. “What are our options?”

She takes a moment to think about it. “Well… there are a few. You could pick a settlement and make it your home; depending on your preferences, there are a few places you could pick. New Triskelion is one of the better places, if you ask me; more ordered, though it’s too close to the Wasres for some’s comfort. Good services, honest people, and it’s a good trade centre; a lotta hunters offload their findings there.

“Crigley is a bit further south; it’s more of an agricultural settlement. More rain means more farms. Evanstown’s a dump- lots of crims like to hang out there ‘cause their laws are pretty lax. But if you’re looking to sell yourselves as hired muscle, that’s probably your best bet. Two strong boys like you’d be snapped up in no time for any security job you want.”

Evangeline’s upper lip curls in distaste. “Mercenaries,” he sneers, and the tone of his voice says it all.

“Hey man, don’t go shitting on them; it makes good money, and not all of them are crooks. Plenty of straight mercenaries out there- you just have to know where to look.”

He glares at her and flips his knife a little more aggressively. She fights a smile and carries on, “If you two have the travel bug in you- if you wanna see the extent of what’s left of the Americas, then I can buy you a car, supplies, and you can be on your merry way.”

Roger tears his eyes away from the road to stare at her. “Why would you buy us a car?”

Darcy shrugs. “Hunting’s a pretty lucrative job. Half of the job is scavenging dead towns for goods- I mean, if you find yourself the right book, you could set yourself up for life. Sure, I might give most of mine away, but I’m not some destitute pauper that can barely afford the shirt on my back. Buying you a car’d be easy. It’s not like it has better things to be doing.”

The men are silent. She weaves around a burnt out truck and the five car pile-up behind it. “The other option,” she says eventually, fingers gripping hard at the wheel, “is apprenticing yourself off to a hunter. New Triskelion’s a good place to start; they started up a school for those interested in training a couple of years ago. They’re right on the edge on the Wastes, so lots of hunters stay there.”

Her soldiers are quiet- they’re sharing some kind of freaky, silent conversation between themselves, and Darcy’s not about to break into their discussion. She doesn’t even know what she wants them to pick.

On the one hand, she reckons they deserve to live the quiet life after being under Hydra’s thumb for so long. On the other, she’s not even sure if men like them could live the settled life- not without going mad (she knows she couldn’t). And then there’s that little thought hanging out in the back of her mind that’s wondering if they’d like to apprentice with her- and that she’d _like_ them to. Darcy doesn’t know what to think about that; pragmatically, she thinks she should- strength in numbers, as always- but emotionally there’s always been that aging grief that holds her back.

Darcy sighs heavily; she’s exhausted. She hasn’t slept for at least twenty-four hours, and in the last six hours alone, she’s probably spoken more than she’s done the last six months. Her eyes are dry and gross, her throat aches- as does the hand she’s used to punch Evangeline- and emotionally she feels drained.

In the distance, she can make out the shape of a faded metal sign for what she suspects is Magnolia, and she sighs in relief. “You two don’t need to decide now; we won’t get to New Triskelion ‘til the day after tomorrow, but we’re going to stop in Magnolia for the night- I need to rest, and maybe I can give you two some rudimentary land magics training.”

They nod and Evangeline resumes with the knife flipping once again. She can’t tell from the angle of her mirror, but she’s fairly certain Roger is tapping on his gun. They drive in silence into the little town, her eyes scanning the road for any places that might be good to camp the night in.

She grins when she catches sight of the sign. “Speaking of books,” she murmurs, and pulls into what was once Southern Arkansas University, stopping in front of the library. She turns off the car and opens the door. No longer buffered by the moving car, the hot air of the day falls over them like a heavy blanket. Darcy grabs her supply pack from the tray as the soldiers emerge from the truck; they share identical looks of confusion and disbelief, eyes locked onto the _Magale_ _Library_ sign plastered above the doors. The aged lettering looks gold in the light of the setting sun.

“Good a place as any to camp- so long as it doesn’t stink of death. And I always prefer to sell books to other things; I let the other hunters worry about scavenging other stuff. Lord knows there’s enough of them now.”

And yet, for the ever growing number of hunters working the Wastes, it’s always a surprise when she comes across one. Especially out in the Deep.

 Roger glances back at the unsecured truck. “Wouldn’t bandits be a problem?”

 Darcy shrugs, nonchalant, “They’re not an issue this Deep. But even in the Shallows they’re uncommon; people don’t take kindly to bandits and thieves. Hunting’s a well-respected profession; it keeps the settlements safe, provides them with new supplies and knowledge. It’s always pretty obvious when a thief’s trying to sell off stolen hunter wares. If they’re lucky, they’re turned over to the town sheriff.”

“And if they’re unlucky?”

Darcy levels the two of them with a flat stare. She’s sure they’re not going to steal from her, but it doesn’t hurt to hammer the point home. “Shit gets nasty. I’ve seen a mob tear a man apart before, though mostly they just get lynched. It’s a good disincentive.”

 “That’s… extreme.” She raises a brow at him. It feels somewhat odd to hear an opinion of any kind come from the man. Not so soon.

“You don’t fuck with hunters” she says flatly. “Without them, most settlements would have been swallowed up by Shades years ago.” She points to their own packs, motioning for them to pick them up. “Now c’mon. I wanna get inside before it goes dark. May as well start teaching you the basics; it’ll take us a few days to get back to New Triskelion.”

 

* * *

 

 

Darcy starts them on meditation as soon as they’ve finished eating. She’s tired as hell, but if the soldiers can’t sense a Shade then there’s honestly no point to them keeping watch. It’s a shit situation as it is- staying in one place at night makes her jumpy- but if Darcy’d kept on driving, she could all but guarantee them crashing. And it not as though she can let Roger or Evangeline take the wheel while she has a kip. Besides the fact that they had no idea where they were going, the danger of a wandering Shade is still valid.

She puts down her empty dish, crossing her legs. “Copy me,” she tells them, and the men comply with varying degrees of success. She eyes Evangeline’s pose critically- those combat pants of his don’t seem to allow for much flexibility, but she suspects that’s more down to what he’s stuffed in the pockets than the stiffness of the fabric. Roger at least seems to be coping fine. Not that it’s really the pose that matters, but she hears it’s helpful for beginners.

She breathes out deeply, settling herself in her skin and calming her thoughts. “I need to you close your eyes. Clear your mind of any errant thoughts… try focussing on your breathing- breathe in deep-” she pulls in air and hears them do the same. Holds the breath for a count of two, “Then out.” They copy her. “Good,” she says approvingly, “and again. In… and out.” She lets them breathe for a good five minutes or so, synchronising her own breathing to theirs, feeling the way she grows lightheaded and is sure they’re feeling the same.

“Do you feel it?” she asks, just to confirm. “Feel that edge of giddiness?” They hum, and Darcy smiles in approval at the unchanging rhythm of their breathing. “I want you to chase it. Concentrate on that sensation- how does it feel? Light? Floaty? Tingly? What does it feel like at the very edge of your fingers? How does it feel to pull oxygen into your lungs?

“We’re surrounded by Earth magics- there’s energy running through the ground beneath us. It flows through the air. As you breathe, you pull more of it into you, and just like oxygen, it starts to saturate your body. Now concentrate on that dizzy feeling again. There’s something else there, hiding in that feeling. Examine it, if you can. Try to distinguish it from everything else.”

Darcy falls quiet and lets the men do as they’re told. She doesn’t expect them to sense it right off the bat, though most people can get a good feel for it after a few dozen bouts of meditation. She searches for Shades in the meantime, sorting through the wash of magic in her for any strains of poison. She finds none- which is comforting- and returns to simple meditation once again.

She’d almost forgotten how calming an exercise it is- how freeing it feels to simply let go of her thoughts and concerts and pains, at least for a little while.

She’s not certain how much time has passed when she finally decides to open her eyes, but the library is black as pitch. Colours swirl through her vision- an aftereffect of the breathing exercise, and she leans forwards to light her lantern. Roger and Evangeline’s faces flare into life, faces thrown into deep shadows.

They look… serene. At peace.

Certainly they don’t seem to have noticed her moving. Darcy almost feels bad for interrupting their meditation when she stands. She watches their eyes flick open in unison, faint creases forming around their eyes once more. Even so, they look calmer and contented than before.

“That’s enough, for tonight,” she murmurs, and moves away, pulling out the compass from under her shirt to start sketching protection symbols down onto all of their cardinal and intercardinal points.

“What are you doing?” Evangeline rasps. His voice sounds raw and almost vulnerable.

“Rudimentary protection wards,” she hums, and brushes a few books from a shelf so she can carve the runes into the enamelled metal with her knife. “You can essentially hide your energy signature from Shades with runes. It’s not fool proof- there’s not enough space here to give 100 percent protection, but it works… It’s one of the funny things about magic- even dirty magic. It has rules. Very few, but enough to work to your advantage.”

“What is… dirty magic?”

She moves onto the next point, making sure she’s got the direction right with her compass before drawing a mark straight onto the shitty commercial carpet with a stick of soft rock. She pushes a little magic into the rune as she draws, breathing out slowly as a frission of energy leaves.

“It’s… complicated.” She replies after all the marks have been drawn. She feels a little better about sleeping at night now. “So the Earth is full of magic, right? And mostly, that’s not a problem. It’s just energy- not really directed at anything good or bad, but it’s like a life force- keeps everything alive and wholesome.” Darcy sits back down in the space they cleared for themselves amongst the desks, and arranges her pack to use as a pillow before stretching out on the floor. God, she’s tired.

“And then along comes The Turning, right? And well… it corrupts a whole lot of it- turns magic on its head, tears souls from bodies- and it’s like… the antitheses of Earth magic, because there’s nothing stable or _natural_ about it… nothing good.

“Ugh,” Darcy grimaces at her lacklustre explanation. “Phil is better at this. He can give you a clearer explanation when we get to New Triskelion.” She rolls her head to look at them; they’re still sitting cross-legged. She wonders if they even realise it. “You should both get some rest. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day. We’ll be safe ‘til morning.”

They nod at her, and Roger moves to mimic her position, stretching out beside Evangeline, head resting near the man’s thigh. Evangeline doesn’t move- only closes his eyes, breathing slowing down as though about to try meditating again. Darcy shrugs and turns away. They’re big boys- she’s sure they can (mostly) handle themselves.

“Don’t do that for too long,” she warns Evangeline, nonetheless. “You’ll make yourself high as a kite, hyped up on magic and oxygen.”

Evangeline doesn’t reply, and Darcy falls asleep to the synchronised breathing of her two new companions.

 

* * *

 

 

_Someone is shouting_ , Darcy thinks, floating in the state between dreaming and lucidity.

She groans. Rests a hand over her eyes.

_No._

Someone is _screaming_.

Her eyes flicker open and she sits up, vision blacking out at the rapid change in altitudes. Across from her, Evangeline sits curled in on himself, staring at his companion with something akin to horror and an ancient grief on his face.

Roger lies rigid on the floor, hands curled into claws on either side of his legs, feet twitching spasmodically.

He is screaming, the sounds muffled by his clenched teeth, as though trying to mask his pain even in rest. The sound is wounded and guttural, and Darcy wonders at the muffled wail. What unspeakable horrors have been done to these men, for such sounds to come from them in their dreams?

She stands and moves over to him. Evangeline regards her with a haunted gaze, but he seems unable to move, even as Roger’s twitching grows stronger. His screams seem endless.

“Roger,” she says loudly, carefully stand a foot away from him. Darcy knows from experience that it’s best not to touch, though the temptation is strong.

Roger’s screams die down to an anguished moan and she repeats his name, louder still.

“Вставай!” Evangeline suddenly says, voice hoarse. He bites his lip, long hair hanging over his face as he curls out of his defensive ball.  

The man’s eyes snap open, his moans cutting off so suddenly the following silence is deafening. For a moment, he stares up at the ceiling, gaze wild and fearful, breathing heavily, before he seems to realise where he is. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, obviously distressed.

“Все нормально,” Evangeline croons, shuffling over to the larger man, metal hand reaching out to stroke away the sweat beading his forehead. “Все нормально. Не волнуйтесь.”

Roger stares up at the man, the grief in Evangeline’s eyes mirrored in his own. “Что они сделали для нас?” he breathes, clutching at his metal arm like a lifeline. Evangeline shakes his head mutely, looking so confused and shaken that it tears Darcy’s heart in two just to see it. His flesh hand shakes as he runs it through the Captain’s blonde hair. The touch is familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times before, and Darcy wonders if he even realises it.

“Я не знаю,” he whispers. Roger squeezes closed his eyes, rolling onto his side to press his face against the unforgiving material of Evangeline’s pants. He strokes his hand through his hair again, a poor simulacra of a touch of comfort but it doesn’t look like Roger cares. “Я не знаю.”

Darcy swallows thickly at the sight of them, lost and alone. Once, she might have come at them with a warm, forgiving smile and blankets- like she did with Thor and Jane, on the rougher nights- but the Darcy that could offer such comfort as easily as breathing is long since gone. Now she feels only like an outsider- a stranger intruding carelessly upon their moment.

At a loss, she does what _is_ familiar to her.

She flees.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes/Evangeline gives zero shits about your gender norms.
> 
> What our boys have said today, according to google translate:  
> Это означает, что вы будучи мудак – It means you’re being an asshole.  
> Вставай – wake up  
> Все нормально. – It’s okay  
> Все нормально. Не волнуйтесь. – It’s okay. Don’t worry.  
> Что они сделали для нас? – What have they done to us?
> 
> (Sorry about that last bit. I did NOT intend to make that as soul wreckingly awful as it is...)  
> Я не знаю. – I don’t know.


	6. Worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is worthy.

“Shit,” she breathes, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the library. “ _Shit_.”

None of that scene was okay. None of it.

She breathes out, deep and slow into the cold night air, and watches the plumes and eddies of it as it turns to mist. Fucking _hell_ , but that had been intense; hard to watch, too. Darcy finds herself wishing that she knew more about them, even though she also knows that she really, _really_ doesn’t, just so she could give them something more than a ride back to civilisation.

Not for the first time, Darcy wonders about her new companions. They’ve a history between them- even without their memories it’s plain to see that they mean something to each other. Somehow, after seven years of keeping her distance from others, from preventing herself from growing attached, she’s managed to land herself another couple. An amnesiac couple once used a blind tools for an extinct evil organisation, but a couple nonetheless.

“Fuck.”

Darcy shudders at the thought of it all, almost deliriously glad that she chose to wake them. Unprepared for their baggage or not, it would have been too cruel a fate to leave them to eventually waste away and die in there. She hopes they can take comfort in each other in this brave new world, because it’s going to be a struggle for Darcy to manage it.

Her legs suddenly feel too weak to keep her up, and she lets herself collapse, fabric catching and scraping on the brick all the way down. The sky above her is awash with stars, so bright- brighter than she’d ever seen before she met Jane. Seeing them is a comfort, just as they’ve been ever since the older woman died. A reminder that somewhere out there is a world that’s not fucked up. A world where people live and die and never have to watch their back for the creatures that go bump in the night.

“The hell am I supposed to do, Jane?”

There is no answer, but Darcy never expects one. It makes her feel a little better though, thinking that the other woman is looking over her. That there’s someone listening to her rambling, alone in the Wastes.

“The world’s been so cruel to them. I can’t help them- not in the way they need. And I can’t- I can’t stop thinking of them as my responsibility, you know? And I know they’re not, ‘cause they’re their own people now, but they’re like children, in a way. Giant, muscly children that could kill me, but they know nothing of this world. And they look at me like… like…”

Like she has answers for them.

But Darcy doesn’t even know their questions.

 

* * *

 

Evangeline finds her some time later, staring up at the stars as though they tell her the secrets of the universe, fingers squeezed between her thighs to keep them warm. She knows it’s him- can see the reflection of his hand out of the corner of her eye.

“You… ran off,” he says quietly and Darcy pats the ground beside her, motioning for him to come join her. “We were…”

“Worried that I’d left without you?”

His expression remains tight and closed off. She huffs out a great eddy of mist as he sits down carefully beside her. “Don’t go worrying about me. I'm not going to leave you two here… How is he?”

Evangeline frowns at his hands. “R-Roger though maybe his nightmare had scared you.”

Darcy sighs heavily, regretting her sudden need to leave the situation, but glad she’d done so all the same. “I’ve been alone for a long time, Evangeline. I don’t take people on hunts with me. I don’t travel with others and I don’t go into the settlements unless I have to.”

“Are you… regretting waking us?” he asks haltingly, and Darcy wonders at the man, utterly terrifying and insecure all at once. It’s familiar. She shakes her head vehemently at him.

“God- _no_ ,” she insists. Darcy swallows thickly, pushing away her doubts and fears, because this- this moment right here- is _important_. “Waking up the pair of you is to date the best thing I have ever done, and I’ll never regret that,” Evangeline looks up sharply at that, but Darcy isn’t finished talking yet. “But I wasn’t… prepared. It took me by surprise. I was foolish enough to think that everything was going to be sunshine and daisies, and when it wasn’t, I ran away.”

Evangeline glances up at the sky and his eyes seem to catch on it, widening slightly at the crowded expanse of stars- too many for them to ever count. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t- don’t say that. There’s nothing for either of you to be sorry about,” she shrugs. “It was a nightmare. No one can help that. It was my own damn fault for being caught out. It’s not like I don’t have my own.”

He remains silent, and Darcy is content to return to her study of the stars. They stay like that for what feels like hours but must only be about twenty minutes before Darcy is forcing herself to get up and taking Evangeline back into the library. Roger is meditating again, and when he resubmerges, looking peaceful and thoughtful, she offers him a smile and an apology for running away. He accepts it with a bewilderment that Darcy can hardly bare to think about and she forces some food onto them to break their fast to distract herself.

As soon as she’s content they’ve eaten enough (and rookies or not, with the way they eat it’s a good thing they’re going back to New Triskelion, because they’d run out of food within a week), she tasks them with picking ten books each to take back with them.

Then men stare at her blankly, and Evangeline’s eyes slide past her to take in the seemingly endless row of spines. “What kinds?”

She shrugs, and heads over to the non-fiction section. “Anything that looks useful. Agricultural, engineering, science- medical books are especially valuable. Even craft and woodworking books can fetch a pretty penny if you’re in the right market.”

She plucks thick anatomy book from a shelf, rifling through the pages to check its condition. There’s almost no mildew or damage, and she tucks the heavy tome under her arm. She hears her soldiers shuffling through the library- slower going than Darcy with her large lantern, but even with the candles she gives them, they meet her outside with their ten books just in time to see the first rays of light bringing on the day. Darcy carefully fits their books into the box at the back of the tray. It’s properly sealed, to try and mitigate any damage transporting might wreak.

“All good?” she asks, and double checks the clasp on the box. The soldiers nod and Darcy motions for them to hop in. The truck sputters to life when she turns the key, and she spares the shadowed front of the library only a momentary glance before driving them away, heading back for the highway that will lead them out of town.

It’s not until the sun has breached the horizon that Darcy finally feels at ease. True to their name, Shades- particularly the weaker ones- don’t much like the sun, and it’s exceedingly rare to come across one powerful enough to be active during the day. She hums to herself, reaching over Roger to the glove compartment, and pulls out a cassette. It’s one of the things she hates about the truck- no CDs- but she’s not about to deal with a whole day of driving in silence.

“Hope you like David Bowie,” she hums with a smile and plugs the thing in and the slow beat of ‘Five Years’ starts up. She sways her fingers to the song and mouths along to the lyrics, not quite confident to sing it aloud with Roger and Evangeline in the car with her.

They drive for most of the day in silence- the soldiers nowhere near as chatty ( _ha_ ) as they’d been yesterday- but for the various cassettes she runs through (she’s collected a _lot_ over the years), her fingers drumming out the beat of the music on the steering wheel. When she spares Evangeline a glance, his eyes are closed, breathing regulated and she suspects he’s meditating again, rather than sleeping. Roger seems content to stare out into the wastes, his gaze inverted and pensive.

She’s onto their tenth album in the late afternoon when he finally says something, his eyes catching on something out in the Wastes. “What’s that?” he asks, and points out at it. Darcy slows the truck to a halt to follow his line of sight. She frowns, not quite able to make anything out in the haze of the horizon.

“What do you see?” she murmurs. In the back seat, she hears Evangeline shift and the soft _clink_ of his metal arm on the window.

Roger squints, straightening up in his seat as though it will give him a better vantage point. “I don’t know… Some kind of fence.”

She raises an eyebrow. Is that it? “There were plenty of farms out here, back in the day.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s… too big. It’s all wrong…”

Darcy tries to see what he sees, but her eyesight’s not exactly the best. “Did you… want to check it out?” she ventures, not entirely willing to let a hunch of his slide. It’s not as though a little side trip could do any harm.

“Yes.” Roger sets his jaw, and looks at her defiantly as though expecting her to say no. Darcy sighs heavily and puts the truck into gear. There is- most conveniently- a service road not far away from them and she pulls onto the unmarked bitumen with little complaint.

“We’ll see how far this road takes us,” she grimaces, and firmly ignores Roger’s faint look of surprise. “But if it turns to off-road, we’re turning back.”

Roger shrugs, but remains silent. Darcy turns up the music and speeds down the road with ease- no silent and empty cars to avoid here.

It only takes a few minutes for her to see first the fence, and then the building some way beyond it. It looks something like an aircraft hangar- a long expanse of white iron streaked with red curving over the land, interrupted by some kind of building built into it covered in glass. It shimmers in the late afternoon sun and Roger is right- neither fit into the landscape. There’s only meant to be rural farmsteads and wooden sheds out here.

They come across the fence a few minutes after Darcy first catches sight of the building. She slows to a halt in front of the boom-gate, and hops out to investigate.

_RESTRICTED AREA: NO TRESPASSING Beyond This Point_ the sign on the fence reads in peeling red letters. Another sign beside it says _photography is prohibited_. Darcy scratches at the back of her head, deliberating. She remembers hearing about a place like this- has some faint recollection of watching a documentary about some Air Force base that was rumoured to house aliens. Area something or other.

She wanders over to the little building beside the boomgate. True to form, there’s the remnants of a body inside, crumpled on the floor amongst a pile of black military clothing. The computer terminal is dusty and corroded.

She almost misses the stylised eagle.

“Shit,” she murmurs, staring in irritation at the faded sticker below the computer. “Well now I can’t _not_ investigate.”

Fucking Shield. Twelve years on and still proving itself to be a major pain in her ass.

The sound of screeching metal startles her and she jumps in shock, twisting around to catch Roger single-handedly (quite literally single handed, she might add) lift the boom-gate, breaking whatever component usually keeps it locked as though it were made of paper. He stares at her when he’s done, and if that’s not confirmation that her new companions are enhanced, she doesn’t know what is.   

“I guess that’s the executive decision then,” she sighs. Roger waits by the gate expectantly and Darcy hurries back to the truck to drive through. He hops back in as soon as they’re through, and Darcy spends the next three minutes driving to the compound with a growing sense of dread (or is it anticipation?). She fervently hopes they’re not about to stumble across another faux-Shield base- or heaven forbid, another pair of soldiers put into cryosleep.

The closer they get, the more out of place the facility appears. There’s just too much glass, steel and concrete going on. It must have been brand new before The Turning. She stops the truck again just outside what looks like the entrance, pulling up beside the wreckage of several unmarked black SUVs. Darcy pulls her machete out from its customary place beneath her seat and secures it to her belt as she gets out, slinging her bag over her shoulder and the men follow her silently, like shadows. Evangeline has the sense enough to unhook the lantern from behind her seat and Darcy smiles at him in thanks.

She takes down the door with a solid kick or three, grinning at the rush of endorphins the move releases as the glass shatters in its protective glazing and the metal frame crumples. For a Shield-made door, she’d have thought it would be sturdier. They move in, Darcy taking point without even meaning to.

Inside is dusty; the ever present smell of death and decay only faint in the air, and their steps leave clear marks in the dust, as though walking through snow. They bear the smell with a stoicism she can only admire, and together they stalk through the compound, growing inexplicably on edge the further they travel. There’s something strange about the place… something about the structure of the facility that feels off.

_There are no bodies_ , she realises after investigating the third unlocked room they come across. The place is empty- the man in the checkout point the only evidence that there had ever been people here at all. The lack of bodies makes her wary- they’re still out in the Deep… she can’t think of a reason why they wouldn’t be finding plenty of bodies around the place. But beyond that, there’s something off with the magic here. Not wrong… but different from what she’s used to.  

It’s not like she’d have expected a Shield facility to look, though there’s evidence enough of their mark throughout the place. But there are few rooms, and all are largely filled with computers- long since dead, unlike Hydra’s. The reason for so few rooms is explained soon enough when they come across the actual hangar.

Darcy can sense immediately that they’ve stumbled across something remarkable the moment they enter the space. There’s a spike of energy- a frisson of power running across her skin like a lover’s caress. It makes her shiver, but when she glances back at her companions, they seem unaffected.

She takes in the place with a critical eye; another bank of computers- unoccupied and long since dead- and a good sized open space where they stand, and then a wall of plastic curtains that must be acting as a barrier between the facility and the hangar. Light bleeds through the sheeting, bright enough that she kills the light of her lantern.

“Though there,” she says quietly, pointing at the plastic. The silence of the facility is so absolute it’s deafening, and it makes her reluctant to speak louder. Roger walks past her, remarkably quiet for such a large man, and he slips through the gap in the plastic sheeting without a word. It rustles loudly. Darcy swallows back her unease.

There’s no sound from the other side, but Darcy can see the blurred shape of the Captain moving forward before pausing for a long time.

“What is it?” she asks. Roger’s blurred shape moves back and he spreads the curtains wide enough for her to pass through.

“See for yourself.”

Darcy does, ducking underneath his arm and into the hangar. It’s bright. For whatever reason, Shield chose to put a series of skylights into the hangar’s arched ceiling, and the spike in temperature is immediate. She huffs in annoyance as she takes in the crater.

It’s not a huge crater, sure, but it’s still pretty damn big. Maybe 150 feet across, with deep, sloping sides. The edges of it are as crisp as the day it was made.

And in the middle, where the ground rises into what almost looks a plinth, there rests a battle hammer.

“What in the world?” she murmurs, biting her lip. Evangeline joins her, toeing at the crater’s edge with a black boot. The expression on his face could almost pass as confused.

Roger, already used to the sight, is quick to slide gracefully down the side of the crater, uncaring about the possibility of any traps or long-forgotten security measures Shield may have set. Evangeline huffs in annoyance, and Darcy has to cough to hide her smile.

“Is he always like that?”

“Like what?”

She shrugs and keeps her eyes glued to the broad lines of Roger’s back as he lopes up to the hammer with his long legs. “Not… cautious.”

Evangeline frowns, looking down at his feet for a moment. “I don’t… I… I think so.”

She bites her lip but stops herself from apologising. It’s going to take a while to get used to their empty memories. Evangeline at least seems to be calmer than yesterday- far less aggressively surly, at any rate. She wonders if it’s all the hours of meditation he’s done today, before deciding that right now it doesn’t really matter.

Darcy sighs and fluffs out the back of her shirt. It feels like a fucking greenhouse in here, and the sweat pooling in the small of her back is as gross and uncomfortable as ever. She’d probably be embarrassed were it not that she knows the soldiers are even worse off than she. “Well, we’d best join him,” she harrumphs, and starts down the crater. The ground is covered in loose pebbles and she moves carefully to stop herself from falling down on her ass. Evangeline follows a moment later.

Roger is standing beside the hammer, staring at it with a look of intense concentration. “It’s not dusty,” he says as soon as they’re close enough. Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“So?”

“Everything else is covered in dust.” He motions at the hammer and Darcy wonders how long this facility has been here for. “But not this.”

She hums and shrugs. “It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Roger glances back at them, a questioning look on his face. Darcy has a pretty good idea what it’s about. “Go on, then,” she says, grinning and fanning at her face a little. “Give it a try. It looks heavy.”

He turns back to the hammer and grasps it in one of his big hands. She watches the muscles in his arms bulge with a kind of detached interest as he pulls at the handle.

The hammer doesn’t move. Doesn’t so much as budge.

She and Evangeline share a puzzled glance as Roger adds another hand to the hammer, pushing at the ground with his feet but to no avail. And he’s definitely pulling; Darcy can see the way his muscles bulge and flex- impressive and kind of hot (once again, Darcy’s reminded of how long it's been since she got laid)- but the hammers doesn’t move.

Evangeline huffs in exasperation and joins him, grabbing at the hammer with first his metal hand, and then his flesh one, wrapping it around Roger’s so tightly his knuckles turn white. She’d laugh were it not so strange.

And still, the hammer does not move.

Darcy is starting to get a clear idea of why Shield would build a hangar here.

They let go at the same time, looking irritated and disgruntled. Darcy bites back a laugh and moves to up to stand with them, peering curiously at the hammer. It glints at her, the silver so bright it looks like it’s alive. She takes a moment to admire the engravings around its edges- the knot work is clearly Nordic. The leather on the grip looks like it’s almost new, even though she _knows_ it has to be at least ten years old.

“Maybe it’s connected to something in the Earth,” she theorises, and casually brushes the handle with the back of her ha-

The hammer _moves_.

The three of them stare at the weapon in shock. Darcy’s hand feels it’s on fire, but there’s no mark on her skin when she looks.

“What- I… _what?_ ”

Roger’s hand flies out, hitting the handle with the back of his hand. There’s an audible _thump_ but the hammer remains frozen in place.

“What?” she asks again, dumbfounded. Roger removes his hand, expression unreadable. There’s a bright red mark already forming on his skin.

“Try it again,” Evangeline rasps, face expectant. Darcy bites her lip, not feeling particularly willing. Common sense dictates that she shouldn’t go picking up mysterious objects in the middle of a secret Shield facility. He makes a soft sound of annoyance when she doesn’t comply. “It likes you.”

She gives him the side-eye. “It _likes me?_ It’s a fucking hammer.”

He glares at her, eyes narrowing. Darcy swallows, suddenly remembering how strong that metal arm of his is. She reaches for the hammer, noticing with no small amount of dread the way the hair on the back of her neck stands up, as though she’s standing in the middle of a Faraday cage. She wraps her fingers around the warm leather and the sensation grows stronger; a thrill of electricity coursing up and down her spine. Her hands burns for a moment- on the verge of painful- before the feeling simmers down to something almost normal.  

And when she pulls back, the hammer _moves,_ pulling free of its cradle of dirt and rubble.

She staggers back in shock and stumbles on the loose surface of the crater, tumbling backwards, falling and rolling down its unforgiving surface before finally stopping. She groans and spits out a mouthful of dirt, taking stock of herself even as she hears the soldiers’ heavy footsteps hurry down to join her.

“I’m okay,” she grunts, and pushes herself up with shaky arms. She’s mostly unhurt, but for a nasty looking patch of gravel rash on her left shoulder and some scratched palms. The hammer rests where it fell, several feet away.

Evangeline crouches down beside her and the look on his face could almost be called concern. “You’re bleeding,” he says quietly, eyes glued to the side of her face.

Darcy touches her forehead tentatively, and grimaces at the fingers that come back red. “It’s fine,” she growls, sitting up carefully. “Head-wounds always bleed like a bitch.” She wipes her hand on her pants and winces as pain flares up from her grazes. “Should probably look for a first aid kit though.” She has one in her truck of course, but it’s infinitely easier to use one in here. It’d probably pay to take them all, come to think of it. There’s bound to be countless kits around the place- maybe even some drugs that are still okay.

Evangeline spares a look at Roger and he nods before taking off. Darcy stares at the hammer as they wait, zoning out a little and trying valiantly not to feel like an idiot.

“That was really weird,” she sighs. Evangeline huffs and sits down properly beside her.

“How have you survived this long?” he asks in a deadpan voice, inspecting her shoulder with surprisingly gentle fingers. Darcy bites the inside of her lip and refuses to show her discomfort. She glares at him instead.

“Usually,” she growls at him, “I’m not picking up magic fucking hammers in goddamn Shield hangars. Life wasn’t really that complicated.”

Evangeline’s eyes slide over to the hammer, lying innocuously on its side. “It likes you,” he says again. Darcy’s eyes narrow.

“It’s a Goddamn hammer. It has no opinion on the state of things.”

He stays quiet and glares at the cut on her head. Darcy concentrates on how her head feels, but there’s no sensation of dizziness or nausea. “Well the good news is, I don’t think I have a concussion,” she sighs in relief. “That would be bad.”

She starts unbuttoning her shirt and Evangeline stares her in shock. “What-”

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like I’m getting naked.” He stares at her with wide eyes as her sports bra is revealed, but Darcy can’t find it in herself to care much. Though the faint blush on his cheeks is cute. “If it helps, boyo, think of it as a bikini. But this is the easiest way to fix up my shoulder.”

The man frowns a little in confusion, and Darcy puts the term down as another thing he doesn’t remember. His eyes run across her shoulders, lingering on the scarred glyphs on her forearms, but he doesn’t make a comment and Darcy can’t be bothered to give him an answer anyway.

Roger returns with the med kit, looking unaffected by Darcy’s state of undress. He hands it over without complaint and Darcy sits patiently as Evangeline works on her, pulling out pieces of gravel from her arm with tweezers and covering it with anti-septic and gauze when he’s done. Every now and then- when his face goes a little blank and unseeing- she has to direct him, but otherwise he works with practiced hands, and through it all, Roger sits beside the hammer, watching them. It hurts like an absolute bitch, but Darcy bears it with gritted teeth and a vicious glare at the hammer. Pain in the short term is a million times better than risking the chance of an infection out in the Wastes, improved healing or not.

She’s seen hunters die from mere scratches, screaming for death to take them as their bodies rot. It’s not a way Darcy is ever willing to go.  

“Thanks,” she sighs when he’s finished swabbing what looks (and feels) like a souped-up version of betadine on her hands and the cut on her head. He stands and offers her his metal hand; Darcy takes it with only minor hesitation. It feels smooth and surprisingly warm in hers as he pulls her up, and Darcy thanks the Gods that she doesn’t stumble.

“We should get going,” she grunts, shaking the aches out of her limbs, “or-” she grimaces, “actually, we might be better off staying her the night. Unless you’re fine with travelling through ‘til tomorrow morning.”

God, she hates this awake by day, asleep at night thing. Fuck knows what it’s doing to her sleeping patterns, and the thought of sleeping another night without proper vigilance puts her teeth on edge.

Roger an Evangeline share a glance, and Darcy gets the distinct impression that they’re conversing. Darcy lets them, and walks carefully over to the hammer as she shrugs her shirt back on. She doesn’t miss the way the hair on the back of her neck rises again as she draws near, but she reaches for it anyway, bracing herself for the thrill of energy that runs up and down her spine as soon as her hand connects. It’s not unlike the way she feels when saturated with magic, only more focused.

“This is really, _really_ weird.” She grits out, fingers tightening around the handle. It’s oddly light in her grip, but there’s still enough weight to it that she’s sure it packs quite a punch. Her companions say nothing and she stalks past them, feeling unnecessarily grumpy now that Evangeline has fixed her up. “C’mon. I wanna see what else this place has to offer.”

And then she hefts the hammer up to rest against her shoulder and pushes through the plastic curtains, not bothering to wait for the men to join her.

(Her hair, the next time she sees it in the reflection of a window, is frizzed and unruly, as though she’s stuck a fork into a power-plug.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha  
> ahahah  
> AAHAHAHAHAHA  
> AHAHAHAAAHAHAHAAAAAAA


	7. Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's for hopin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh I really love this chapter guys. Hopin' you'll like it as much as I did :D

 

They store the looted Shield med kits in the back of the truck before it goes dark. The place is rife with other things of use, like guns and ruined computers that can be salvaged for scrap. But Darcy doesn’t like to carry too many non-essentials with her- and certainly nothing that could turn her into an arms dealer.

The world has enough pain in it. No need for her to add to it.

She sits Roger and Evangeline outside just as the sun is setting, for an hour’s mediation whilst she sets up shop for the night inside. Darcy takes extra care with the warding that night, still hating the way she’s fucking up her sleep cycle. With any luck, they’ll drive through the day and night tomorrow and get close enough to New Triskelion that it won’t matter.

In sharp contrast to the blazing heat of the day, the nights in the Wastes are bitterly cold, but she’s guessing that a building like this will retain its heat well enough for them to get in a good four or five hours if they sleep as soon as possible. The soldiers return just as she’s finished cooking dinner; samp and beans, cooked with heavily spiced jerky (an Evanstown ‘specialty’) and sprinkled with a hard cheese.

She smiles at them as she serves it up in bowls she scavenged from Hydra’s mess hall in Buffalo. “Anything to report?”

They shake their heads and Darcy shrugs. She doesn’t expect them to sense anything, but when she checks the air before bed- standing outside her wards so as not to disrupt her readings- she senses nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

“Shit,” she murmurs, opening her eyes.        

Roger and Evangeline stare at her expectantly. It’s sometime around midnight, judging by the position of the stars, and Darcy is well-rested enough to have another crack at driving. She bites her lip and leans heavily against the wall of the Shield compound. “I was really hoping we’d manage to get a clear run.”

“A Shade,” Roger says, somewhere between asking and stating.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’d leave it be and move on, but it’s moving this way and once it gets a scent of us, it’ll go after us anyway. Best to lead it here on our own terms.”

She’s already striding over to the truck, taking down the gate to grab her hunting gear, gathered as always in an ancient duffle bag that saw better days five years ago.

Her eyes linger on the hammer, contemplative. She could probably deal a good amount of damage with the thing… but she’s not entirely certain she trusts it. It’s clearly magical- there’s no way two grown men wouldn’t manage to move it unless it’s the case- but Darcy’s never seen the like of it before. Most magic these days is reserved for crop growing and hunting. And she’s not about to put her life of the line to fulfil the desire to use a never before encountered magical item when her fists have worked well enough for years now.

She leaves the hammer in her truck.

“Once it turns up, you two are going to have to stay here,” she says firmly, voice brooking no argument. “This is out of your league and I _don’t_ want either of you getting hurt. Understand?”

They glare at her but don’t argue. Darcy sighs with relief; she needs time to construct and bait the Shade’s trap, and arguing with them does not factor into that time limit. “Thank-you,” she sighs again. “Now c’mon; I’ll show you how to make a trap.”

They follow her silently, marching grimly through the expanse of dry grass and the ruins of a thorny bush that clings to their clothing like a needy child.

“Pro-tip; you wanna pick an open space,” she tells them as they fight their way through the grabby bushes. “Makes it a little harder to hurt yourself when there’s nothing for a Shade to throw you at. I’ve heard plenty of stories of careless hunters breaking their necks, thrown into cars or buildings.”

She stops. Behind them, she can just make out the dim shape of the hangar, several hundred feet away and on a slight rise in the land. Darcy nods in satisfaction and slings her duffle bag down onto the ground, pulling out a metal stake a little shorter than her arm. It gleams brightly in the moonlight, the markings carved across its surface standing out in sharp relief against the silver.

“These are glitter sticks,” she explains, and stabs the stake into the ground with a forceful thrust. She takes ten steps to the north, checking with both the stars and her compass, and plants another into the hard baked ground. “They’re a silver alloy- hold magic better than your usual steel, which is useful when going up against bigger game. See the markings?” she points at the carved symbols and the men crouch down to inspect it.

Darcy moves on, talking as she walks. “They’re _actual_ warding runes- meant to keep the Shade in. If you were hunting with more than one person- unless it was a really big one- the task of keeping the Shade contained would go to the second person but I use the sticks, because obviously, I don’t have a second.”

“Why?”

She spares Evangeline only a short glance. He’s watching her work with bright eyes, gaze intense. “You want to trap the Shade because once it’s stuck, it’s easier to tear apart.”

“Tear apart?”

She stabs her last stake into the ground and straightens up, grimacing. “Shades are a manifestation of dirty magic. They’re like… kind of physical, but also… not?” she huffs in frustration. Explaining this kind of shit has never been a strong point. “It’s like, they’ve a physical form, right? But it’s like an exoskeleton on a bug- hard on the outside, with a soft and squishy center. Only instead of bug guts, it’s magic. The magic holds it all together.”

She grins, proud of her analogy, but Roger and Evangeline are staring at her blankly. She huffs and rolls her eyes. Whatever. “Long and short of it is, you tear up their ‘exoskeleton’ and they kind of just dissipate. Cleanse the magic and you’ve just killed yourself a Shade.”

Roger frowns at her, glancing pointedly at her now empty duffle bag. “And you… tear it apart with your hands?”

Darcy laughs. “You use your hands as a channel for the Earth magic.” To demonstrate, she shucks off her flannel shirt, shivering a little at the cold air that her tee-shirt offers little protection from. She lifts her arms in offering; there are more symbols carved into the skin high up on her forearms. The scars are raised and pale and long since healed, though with her healing, she’d been lucky that they’d scarred at all. “Not everyone gets scars- tattoos work too, but for working out in The Deep, these babies are your best bet.”

Evangeline runs a hand carefully over the raised skin, contemplative. The corner of her lips twitch. “They’re made with a special kind of ash that’s been blessed and purified beforehand. Something about it helping you store magic better.”

She thinks of the hammer in the tray of her truck and grimaces. “Of course, some people like to use weapons- knives, truncheons, maybe the odd axe- but I’ve always preferred to use my hands.”

Just like Thor.

He used to bemoan the loss of some weapon or other- mew-mew. She can’t remember what it actually was now, but the odd name has stuck in her mind; mostly because she used to make fun of him for it.

The hollow feeling in her chest intensifies at the thought of her old friends. She pulls her flick knife from her boot and carefully cuts a small slit across the skin of her wrist. Roger and Evangeline watch with unwavering attention as she walks around the circle of glitter sticks, smearing a touch of her blood across the flattened top of every stake.

“Alright,” she murmurs, once done. “You’re going to want to stand outside the circle for this, please.” They comply and she nods in approval. “So I know it doesn’t look like much, but we’ve just made ourselves a Shade trap.”

It’s not a lie; it doesn’t look like much. Just a large space full of trampled dead grass and the odd silver spike, barely visible in the dark and the tall grass. “A Shade can get in, but it’s not going to get out without a fair bit of trouble and a shit tonne of power.”

Blessedly, her boys don’t ask how that works, and Darcy doesn’t tell them. The theory behind hunting is long and tedious at best, and best saved for those actually interested in taking up the trade.

She jumps around a little to get the blood flowing. “Now, you bait it.”

“With what?”

“The only thing a Shade is interested in; power. Pure or dirty, it doesn’t matter. The fuckers aren’t exactly picky.”

Darcy closes her eyes and starts up her regulated breathing, deep and strong, this time actively seeking out Earth magic, and pulling it into her, allowing her body to act as a battery. Her scars burn as she draws more energy into herself- so much that she feels as though she’s about to burst.

She opens her eyes, grinning through the pain at the exhilaration of it; close to a decade on and this feeling is yet to grow old. Every time is the same.

Better than sex.

(Better than _orgasms_ )

Roger and Evangeline are staring at her, she realises, eyes wide in identical looks of awe and fascination. The markings on her arms glow a warm, reddish-gold, like there’s a fire dwelling just beneath the skin (because there _is_ ) **.**

“Watch this,” she tells them, and she leans down and grabs the stake at her feet with both hands.

The entire circle explodes into a technicolour rainbow, bright pillars of light flaring up some fifteen feet high from each pole.

Darcy whoops as the magic rushes out of her, staggering back and falling on her ass without a care. “And _that_ ’s why they’re called glitter sticks,” she pants as the lights die down some three seconds later. A familiar drained feeling settles on her shoulders, but it’ll leave soon enough, as always.

She flops onto her back, giggling a little. That was a big one. “And now we wait. It’ll pick up on that for sure.” She sighs. “You two need to get back to the truck now.”

They hesitate and Darcy opens her eyes to glare at them. “I’m serious, you two. The truck cabin’s warded; out here is not, so I need pair of you to stay in that truck and stay there, no matter what you see. And if I’m not back in two hours, then you put the keys in the ignition and you drive. South. Drive as fast as you dare, and then a little bit more.” She sits back up, tugging the keys from her jeans to throw at Roger. “Now get.”

Evangeline glares right back at her, looking almost surly. “I want to know how to do that,” he says, and nods at the glitter sticks, still glowing.

“Sure- fine, whatever. _Later._ But you need to get back to that truck _right now_ before I fucking _make you._ ”

They stare at each other, locked in a battle wills that Darcy is determined to win. “I _promise_ I’ll teach you how to work the glitter sticks as soon as I can. But right now is _not_ that time.”

He presses his lips together unhappily, but nods at her sharply. Darcy sighs in relief as he turns around and stalks away, Roger trailing behind him like a silent, blonde shadow. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

She breathes in deep as soon as they’re gone, the woozy feeling from before already dissipating. She can taste the oncoming Shade; bitterness and metal on her tongue. She shudders at the sensation of wrongness and stands. Starts taking in magic again; as always awed by the capacity of the Earth to give, even after all this time.

Endless.

“Come and get me, you asshole,” she growls, marks burning dimly. Every breath feels like fire, pure and cleansing, burning away every thought but the task at hand. It’s only a L3- on the heavy side by the feel of it- but Darcy’s fought far worse. The thrill of it grows as the Shade races towards her.

And Darcy waits for it, with power thrumming under her skin like a second heartbeat. Time passes in a blink; in an eternity. Her mind is eager and calm, all at once. And then she catches sight of it- a hulking mass of deepest, darkest black and shimmering lights on her horizon, the size of a small car.

The distant wailing of a thousand dying souls reaches her not long after.

“Yes, I see you,” she grins, and the Shade lumbers towards her on twisted limbs. The light from her glitter sticks illuminate the monster- or rather, the landscape around it, the Shade reflecting nothing, like a black hole. Within, lights seem to pulsate and shift, growing and fading as though some unspeakable glow is boiling beneath its skin.

She shakes out her arms again, and steps through the ring just as the Shade rushes through, in search of a meal it will never find.

It finds instead Darcy Lewis- Wanderer of the Wastes- waiting for it with a manic grin and glowing fists.

She doesn’t bother with a witty one-liner or artful posturing. Just pulls back her arm and punches the Shade head on.

And the screaming triples in volume as darkness erupts from its head, like bursting a balloon. The Shade twists away from her and Darcy answers with her other fist, teeth bared in a snarl.

Dirty magic rushes from its wounds, hot on her face like a breath of warm air. Or blood. The Shade wails and lashes out, grappling her with twisted arms that feel spongy to the touch. She grunts as it throws her to the ground, and lashes out with her free hand, slamming it into its underside. The wailing shifts in pitch- higher, into an unending shriek that hurts her ears as more magic bursts from the new wound.

Darcy curls her feet up in front of her, protecting her vulnerable stomach from the Shade, and digs her fingers into one of the arms as she pushes _up_ with her legs, tearing the arm from the monster’s body.

She grins as the shriek dies down to a roar that reverberates down to her bones and jumps back up. Breathing in deep- drawing in more magic, she-

 _It has a fucking tail_ , she realises, too late, as it turns around and catches her with it, right in the stomach and Darcy’s breath leaves her in a rush of air and goddamn _magic_. She goes flying, straight through her wards with little more than its customary tug of resistance. Darcy twists in the air, rolling as she hits the ground and ignoring the sharp flashes of pain from rocks that cut her exposed skin.

 _Fucking tails_. Darcy doesn’t get caught out much, but when she is, it’s always because the Shade’s got a fucking _tail_. She growls and stands, checking herself for injuries, but nothing feels broken.

Inside the wards, the Shade is screaming again. It throws itself at her in rage, but to no avail. The glitter sticks shiver and hum at the attack, but they’ll hold strong for a good while yet.

“Two can play at that, asshole,” she snarls and starts regathering power, arms and palms outstretched to the sky.

An odd whistling noise fills the air and she opens her eyes. Twists where she stands to find the source of the strange sound.

Her eyes widen when she catches sight of it- something large and silvery, flying at her at an alarming speed. With little time to do much else, Darcy throws her hands up, trying to shield her face. The thought of the soldiers finally betraying her isn’t far from her mind before there’s something slamming into the palm of her right hand.

She squawks in surprise, staggering back with the force of its landing, and her eyes fly back open.

The hammer.

The _fucking hammer_.

( _Fanart by[Readhead4eyes](http://redhead4eyes.tumblr.com/))_

“What the fucking fuck.”

Unsurprisingly, the hammer offers her little in explanation and she stares at the thing in shock.

“Did I just-” she glances around herself, but there’s no one around but the Shade. “Did I just _summon_ this?”

The Shade howls, unearthly and chilling. Darcy bites her lip, eyes straying back to her newest acquisition. She knows it’s magical- suspected it was a relic of the old world- but this is _not_ what she had in mind when she thought of it.

In her hand, the hammer gleams innocuously, but she can feel its power throbbing up and down her arm, mingling with the Earth magic inside her. Different, sure (like electricity instead of a burning fire), but still similar.

Compatible.

She gets the sense it’s asking to be used.

The Shade howls again, loud and long at an ear-splitting pitch and she grimaces. The glitter sticks won’t hold it forever. Probably.

“If I die,” she tells the hammer and she straightens, “I’m blaming you.” She shifts the hammer a little in her hand to get a proper grip and energy runs across her lands- little sparks, like miniature streaks of lightning. Darcy grits her teeth at the feeling- not wrong, just different- and strides back into the wards, hammer raised high.

The Shade is on her in an instant and Darcy _swings_ ; as much force as she can in her hit. Bolts of electricity follow the hammer, and she smashes through the Shade as though it were paper, its physical form crumpling beneath the weapon with little resistance.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. Without thought she hits it again, both hands wrapped firmly around the handle inexpertly.

The Shade explodes into a cascade of light and screeching darkness, sticking to her skin like tar.

Darcy whoops in exhilaration and swings again on instinct. Lightning flares up around her, burning through the dirty magic so quickly she’s shocked speechless. Purifying this amount of magic would normally taker her _hours_ and a whole lot of fire. She swings again and again, laughing in joy and surprise as the energy and magic swirls around her. Hot like fire but never burning her, hidden at the centre of her self-made lightning storm.

By the time she’s finished, she’s panting heavily, hair electrified with static, the Shade’s corrupted magic barely an afterthought left on the Earth. Darcy collapses to the ground, the cool night air a balm on her blazing hot skin. The hammer is discarded beside her, landing canted on its side on the charred earth.

Her hands are shaking from the pent up, unused magic inside her, the scars on her arms still glowing dimly. She falls onto her back, arms splayed out, palms down and lets it out slowly, back into the Earth from whence it came.

“New favourite, Janie,” she says to the uninterrupted expanse of stars above her. Darcy closes her eyes, a wash of satisfaction rolling over her. “New goddamn favourite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FANART IS DRAWN BY THE WONDERFUL AND TALENTED [READHEAD4EYES ](http://redhead4eyes.tumblr.com/)(Tumblr)/[DIVINEREDHEAD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineRedhead/pseuds/DivineRedhead)(AO3) And hooooly shit guys, I am so happy. SO HAPPY AND HONOURED YOU HAVE NO IDEA. 
> 
> I feel like at this point, I should say, if anyone ever feels like writing in this 'verse (which is probably VERY presumptuous of me, but whatever), you are more than welcome to. Sharing is caring and all that jazz, so long as you acknowledge me and maybe pop into to tumblr to have a chat I have no issue. I'm sure this is presumptuous, but I figured I'd put it up here anyways.


	8. New Triskelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the road trip comes to an end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS GUYS GUYS!!!!!! SURRENDER MY BONES OFFICIALLY HAS FANART AND I AM SO HAPPY I COULD DIE!!!!!!!  
> FANART IS DRAWN BY THE WONDERFUL AND TALENTED [READHEAD4EYES ](http://redhead4eyes.tumblr.com/)(Tumblr)/[DIVINEREDHEAD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineRedhead/pseuds/DivineRedhead)(AO3) And It's also stuck in the last chapter, so you can see it there.  
> hooooly shit guys, I am so happy. SO HAPPY AND HONOURED YOU HAVE NO IDEA. 

By some miracle of nature, Roger and Evangeline are still waiting for her in the truck, sitting stiff and grim-faced in the front seats. Not that it means much when they’re slipping out as soon as they catch sight of her trudging towards them, glitter sticks slung over one shoulder, hammer hanging by the strap around her wrist.

She grins at them tiredly, “Hey,”

“The hammer,” Roger murmurs, a little wide-eyed, “it was-”

“Yeah, I know,” she waves it around a little in the air. “Looks like it’s got abandonment issues.”

“You _used_ it?”

Darcy frowns at him. He almost sounds disapproving, and she’s not sure what to think about that. “I did,” she nark with a brow raised in challenge. She swings the hammer again, watching the sparks trail behind it with a grin so wide it aches in the corners of her jaw. “Turns out it’s got some pretty slick moves.”

They say nothing to that and Darcy shrugs, stalking past them to dump her stuff back in the truck. She can sense no more Shades around- which is a relief. It’s not uncommon for more to be attracted by the appearance of the trap, and normally she can handle more than one a night fairly easily, but it’s not exactly an experience she likes to repeat.

_Then again_ , she thinks, sparing a glance at the weapon before walking back to the cabin and hopping in, _it looks like the hammer would make it a breeze._

“C’mon,” she tells the soldiers, winding down the window to speak. “I wanna get out of here before some other Shade’s catch scent of its fallen comrade.”

Not that it’s likely, of course. Generally, if she can’t sense them, they can’t sense her, but it’s always better to be safe rather than sorry.

They join her; Evangeline in the front, Roger in the back, behind Darcy. She starts it up and pulls away from the old Shield facility in silence; Darcy, somewhat tired and achy from her fight, Roger and Evangeline preoccupied by God knows what. Darcy doesn’t mind- she’s content to watch the sun peek up on the horizon, weaving through cars and emptied trucks once again.

“Have you always been alone out here?” Roger suddenly asks, breaking through the peace of the early morning. Darcy peers at him through the mirror, trying to get a gauge on why he’s asking, but the Captain is staring out impassively at the passing landscape.

“No,” she says eventually. Her chest aches at the thought. “For a while, fresh after The Turning, it was Jane, Thor and I.”

“What were they like?” this time, Evangeline speaks. Darcy almost feels like they’re ganging up on her- some kind of weird 20 questions kind of shit. The ache intensifies. She half wants to keep it to herself- something secret for her to think of in private- but Darcy reminds herself that it’s been seven years. The wounds aren’t as raw, anymore, but the thought of her partners still hurts like a bitch.  

“Jane was a scientist- an astrophysicist,” she finds herself saying. “She studied the stars- all the worlds beyond ours… she used to get this look on her face, when she tilted her head up. Something like awe. Every night she could see the stars, she’d look up at them with that look on hr face, as though she’s seeing them for the first time. I never got sick of it.”

“What happened to them?”

She swallows thickly. “Thor got Jane pregnant. She and the baby died in childbirth.”

Evangeline’s gaze swivels over to her, looking surprised. Darcy shrugs helplessly but she finds herself carrying on without really meaning to. “Afterwards, we started hunting again. Thor was… he was searching for something. He said he was looking for a weapon… something to change the tides, but he never found it. Jane was barely dead a month and we were both grieving- _sloppy_. A Shade caught us by surprise in Puente Antiguo- slashed him almost clean in half and threw him into a building before I could get to it. He died where he fell.”

Puente Antiguo. Where everything with Thor had started. Darcy always thought it was fitting for his story to have ended there. She smiles bitterly at the memory. “I made him a rock grave outside the old service station Jane and I’d been renting when we first found him.

“Thor…” she huffs a laugh in remembrance of the loud man. The truck rattles loudly as Darcy drives over a small sand dune that’s formed over the road. “I used to think he was always a little bit crazy. He was always going on about this place called Asgard. Said it was his home.”

“Asgard?”

She shrugs. “He always insisted it wasn’t on Earth- called us Midgardians, like he wasn’t even human. Sometimes he’d tell us these stories- wild, crazy tales. I just thought he was making them up, but after… well, magic went wild. Most of the world was overrun by monsters made of broken souls… wasn’t so unbelievable then.”

She drums her fingers against the wheel, tongue poking at her cheek in though. “Where he came from by then didn’t matter. All that did was he was one of the first to work out a way to kill Shades _and_ protect ourselves from them. There are a lot of people alive today who have Thor to thank for their survival. Myself included.”

“Do you… miss them?”

She laughs- short and bitter. She doesn’t even care that it’s a fairly invasive question. “Always. I’ll never stop.”

The car falls silent and Darcy breathes out her aging rage and grief slowly. Sometimes, on her bad days, she still blames Thor for her loneliness.

“We… we want to learn,” Evangeline says after a time, the light of day already bringing with it the all-too-familiar heat.

“Okay,” she hums, somehow unsurprised. “Then I’ll teach you.”

The man hums in satisfaction and leans back into his seat, gaze focussed outwards once again. Darcy finds herself questioning her eagerness to teach them. She’s never had an apprentice before- let alone _two_ ; though she’s no stranger to being asked to take one on (her usual response to those brave enough to ask have usually gone along the lines of ‘thanks, but I don’t take rookies’- which is only partly the truth. She doesn’t take _anyone_ ). The thought of taking charge of their hunting education both terrifies and thrills her, in a way that she never thought possible. She tries to reason the choice out to knowing she’s best qualified for the job- and knows how to work their enhanced abilities to their advantage- but the reality is Darcy doesn’t understand her sudden choice to keep these men.

She sighs. Clicks off the headlights. “We’ll get started as soon as we get to New Triskelion.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the drive to New Triskelion is blessedly uneventful.

Darcy even lets Roger and Evangeline share the drive during the day, while Darcy sleeps in the back seats. They follow her directions and her map easily enough, and by the time she rouses herself, they’re halfway through the Shallows and New Triskelion is roughly five hours drive away.

Darcy makes Roger pull over, and she refills the tank while they decide silently on who will take back.

They eat as she drives- dried meat and corn cakes she made the night before- and Darcy cycles through almost every cassette tape she has, the music varying from Bon Jovi to Bob Dylan to Guns and Roses. The soldiers vary between staring blankly out into the distance, reading some of her precious books, and meditating. Darcy doesn’t bother trying to talk to them; they seem content to keep quiet, which is fine by her.

The further they travel, the more the landscape changes. The Deep took the brunt of the Turning, land magic burnt away to leave only the charred remains of what once was, but the Shallows got the better end of the deal. The worst of The Turning’s damage has healed over the years, and in the wet season, the lands to the south are littered with green as the earth springs back into life. They drive through the back end of it, as the perennials wither and take seed; a mess of sickly greens and golden brown that line the road, the occasional late bloomer a flash of yellow and pink, like dabs of paint left behind by a careless artist.

She drives them through the rest of the day, stopping only when they must. By the time she finally catches sight of the settlement, the sky has darkened to a deep blue, stars showing their faces for their nightly sojourn. Darcy smiles at the sight of the spotlights bookending the main gate. They throw light across the ground for several hundred yards.

“The Beacons,” she hums. She’s always loved the sight of them, even if they’ve always somewhat reminded her of her old college football field. The men perk up in interest. “They’re powered by solar; stored in batteries during the day. They mark the edge of the Wastes.”

“Won’t a Shade see them?”

She shakes her head. “The whole settlement is warded.” Darcy points at the short brick walls that extend from either side of the Beacons, encircling the entire settlement. “Kind of like the wards I made, only these come in the full 360 degrees. Thor helped make them, back in the day. They’ve got a rotating roster of hunters, too. New Triskelion’s been around and untouched for nine years.”

“Impressive,” Roger hums and Darcy drums her fingers on the steering wheel, excited to be back. She’s not seen anyone from NT for a good three months.

They’re stopped at Beacon’s Gate by a young woman, grim faced, with an arm in a sling. There is a sub-automatic machine gun strapped to her back, and a pistol holstered to her thigh. Her eyes widen when she recognises who’s driving.

“ _Darcy?_ ” she breathes. Darcy fights the urge to roll her eyes. Kate Bishop is one of the few rookies with the ovaries to have asked her for an apprenticeship. Darcy’d been very tempted to say yes that time, but Kate had shown a marked proficiency in projectile weapons, and that really isn’t her expertise.

“Kate,” she greets warmly and nods at her arm. “Good to see you’re keeping yourself in one piece.”

Under the stark lights of the spotlights, her answering flush is a sickly orange. “You should have seen the other guy,” she jokes. Darcy grins and Kate’s eyes slide past her, landing on her companions. She frowns in confusion. “You got stowaways, Darcy?”

She gives her an easy smile. “Found these two idiots stranded out in the Shallows with no gas,” she lies. Behind her, Roger snorts softly. “Thought I’d be the better person and give them a ride back here, ain’t that right, boys?”

“Sure is, Darcy,” drawls Evangeline, sounding unbelievably casual and far too pleased with himself. Darcy studiously ignores the frisson of interest that runs up and down her spine at the sound of her name on his lips.

As expected, Kate snorts dismissively and Darcy sends her a commiserating look. “We’re all rookies sometime,” she shrugs. Kate doesn’t bother hiding her smirk.

“I guess. What you got for us?”

“A good load of books, medical supplies, some ammo and gas.”

Kate grins and unclips a carved wooden tag from her belt. “There’s room in Barclay’s. You’ve missed dinner, but I’m sure if you ask real nice, Kitty will whip you up something.”

Darcy sighs happily at the thought of a proper meal. “Thanks hun. Is Coulson around?”

The younger woman nods. “He just got back from a training exercise; he’s probably still at HQ.”

“Wonderful,” she sighs, and hands the tag over to Evangeline. “Thanks, Kate.”

“No worries, Darcy.” Kate moves away to open the gates for them and Darcy drives through, sparing the girl a jaunty wave as they go.

“Don’t lose that,” she warns him. “That gives us a week’s free accommodation and food at whatever place you choose to stay.” The soldier nods and wraps the fingers of his metal hand around the flattened wood.

New Triskelion is the reclaimed territory of some forgettable blip of a town, around before the world set itself afire. The remnants of Shield were quick to take over in the early days, when it became clear that the residual ‘radiation’ from The Turning was easy to purify, and the settlement seemed to grow around the now-defunct organisation. In recent years, as the Shallows receded, the small-yet-prosperous settlement has become an essential cornerstone of the hunting industry, with most Hunters preferring to offload their finds for trade there, rather than the larger settlements further south. The desert settlement has grown considerably in recent years as the Shallows pull back, becoming a bustling centre of commerce and trade, despite its compact size.

The increase in venue means good things for lots of people, and in the last couple of years, NT has gone so far as to take a good number of hunters into their employ, funding extra training, expeditions for resources and even paying for their medical bills.  Thanks to the heavy and inescapable hunter presence, New Triskelion has developed something of a night-owl reputation, with many businesses open until late- or for some, all night. The sight of Darcy’s truck- its tray loaded with various finds to be sold at the nearest convenience- driving down the main street is so common that no one so much as spares them a second glance.

Darcy doesn’t stop at Barclay’s- one of the better hostels in town- instead carrying on to Hunter HQ, where hunters under New Triskelion’s employ can usually be found on their down time. Darcy isn’t an employee- she’s one of the increasingly few ‘free rangers’ (proper employment these days offers good benefits, especially for those with families) still alive, but she has plenty of friends who are.

And there’s one man in particular that she wants to find, right now.

The only man she knows with extensive knowledge of Shield _and_ Hydra.

Phil Coulson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOO   
> So in other news, Bones will also have a prequel fic! It doesn't have any real impact on this fic, but for those of you interesting in reading some Natasha/Darcy smut (SMUT! LIKE WHOA GUYS I'VE NEVER WRITTEN SMUT BEFORE), I'll be posting the fic around Thursday morning (American Wednesday evening). :D I'm so proud of myself guys! I've never written smut before but from the people I've sent it to for beta-ing, apparently it's not bad and I am SUPER excited to put it up XD


	9. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooooo So this series now has a smutty 'prequel'. I say Prequel.... it's more that it's just set in the same verse at an earlier time. Not really related plot wise to the events of Bones. The fic is Darcy/Natasha so if that's not your jam, it's fine, but if it is, then you cant find it as part two this series which I totally just made like a week ago (AND OMG THAT ONE HAS FANART TOO AND IT'S AMAZING)! So there. Now Bones is officially part of a series XD

She parks the truck around the back of the large building. Made from repurposed bricks, HQ was one of the first new buildings to be built in the settlement, way back in 2016. Her truck joins several others; their sides emblazoned with a knot-work triskelion within a large circle- the self-explanatory emblem of New Triskelion. Most of their trays are empty, but the furthermost one is being unpacked by a man in a short-sleeved purple shirt; the tattoos wrapped around his forearms and short, scruffy blonde hair are all too familiar.

“Clint!” she calls out, killing the engine. The man straightens, twisting around to find the source of the voice. His face is blank for a moment when his gaze falls on Darcy, before recognition spreads across his face and he puts the crate he’d been holding back on the tray.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, wiping his hands on his jeans and she jumps out of her truck. “The prodigal daughter returns. How long’s it been this time?”

She grins at him as she hears the twin sounds of doors opening and closing. “At least three months.”

He shakes his head in exasperation and bounds towards her to wrap her in a tight hug. In her peripheral vision, Roger and Evangeline stiffen, which is honestly better than she could have expected. Clint smells like smoke, sweat and rosemary soap. “S’good to see you, Darce. Been too long.”

“It’s always too long,” she says into the crook of his shoulder, not-quite apologetic, but certainly as close as she’ll ever be.

“You here to check up on the school again?”

“Not quite, but I did grab a few books for their library. And to sell.”

“You and your books,” he says with a smile and a shake of his head as he pulls away. “Marie’s been asking for some more. Most parties have neglected them in favour of gas and spare parts recently.”

“Scavenger parties?”

He lifts one shoulder in an abortive shrug, glancing back at the truck. “Phil took a group of new recruits out into the Shallows. Thought it was a good time to wet their feet.”

Darcy rolls her eyes at the play on words. “Everything go okay?”

“Nothing serious. They chased down a L2; brought it down easily enough. A few of them got heatstroke, the goobers.”

She snorts. “Rookies. You only do it once.”

“Let’s hope so,” he agrees, nodding. “Or Phil will end up sticking them on Janitor Duty.”

She hums. Clint glances behind her, finally paying attention to her companions. He blinks at them in surprise, sharp eyes catching on the dull glint of Evangeline’s silver arm, his shirt rolled up to the elbows. “You finally break your solo spell, Lewis?”

She shrugs. “We’ll see. Clint, this is Roger and Evangeline. Clint heads training.”

“Hey,” he greets them, not even blinking at Evangeline’s name. The soldiers stay silent, expressions unreadable. Neither moves to take his offered hand and Clint coughs awkwardly, a crease forming in the space between his brows as he regards them curiously.

“They don’t talk much,” she offers with a helpless shrug. Clint nods slowly, gaze flicking between the two of them. Darcy smiles. “Can we speak? In private?”

He nods again. There’s a look in his eyes, something close to recognition. “I think that’s a good idea.” He glances backwards, to the door of the loading bay, where scavenged goods are unloaded. There’s a young man standing awkwardly on the ramp, staring at the four of them in a mix of curiosity and awe. “Ramirez!” he barks, “find Coulson and let him know he’s needed in his office, would you?”

Ramirez nods, a little too quickly. “Yes sir,” he snaps back and turns about face, disappearing back into HQ.

Clint sighs, sparing the night sky a long-suffering glance. “Alright then. C’mon”

The older man leads them into the building, Roger and Evangeline flanking her through the wide corridors like a pair of dour and soundless shadows. She smiles at the thought and the odd look Clint sends her.

“So how have you been, Lewis?”

She shrugs. “Alright. Same as usual- kicking ass and takin’ names.”

He snorts. “I heard from Nat you gave Nick Wallace a good beating.”

She bares her teeth in distaste as the memory. It was months ago now. “He thought he could woo me without dinner and a show first. I disproved him of that theory. Forcefully.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Some days, I’m glad we don’t keep you on our books.”

“Every day I’m glad you don’t keep me on your books.”

He huffs a sigh and shakes his head in mock disgust. “You’re gonna get old some day, Darce.”

“Hmm. But not today.”

He leads them into a large office on the second story of the building. It’s sparsely decorated, with a single glass paperweight on the corner of the desk and a large collection of slightly yellowed maps of North and South America pinned to one wall. The largest one takes centre place, and areas have been shaded in various shades of blue over the old map, carefully marking out the Shallows, the Deep and the Abyss, with all of the settlements they know of marked with little red pins. The map is Phil’s doing, and one the first things to go up in HQ. Phil has a tendency to keep his office obsessively neat- which is probably a good thing, because Darcy knows from experience that Clint’s office looks like a hurricane has passed through it.

Clint motions to the chairs lining one wall as he leans casually against the aging desk. “Pull up a chair,” he orders and Darcy complies happily. Roger and Evangeline copy her with a great deal more reluctance, perched on the seats they pull over as though ready to spring out of them at a moment’s notice.

She watches with minor amusement as they seem to stiffen further at the sound of rapidly approaching feet, the just recently closed door swinging open. She smiles warmly at the aging man that stops there, receding hairline long past the point of no return but his eyes and nose are as sharp as ever.

“Darcy Lewis,” Phil Coulson, Director of the Training Institute of New Triskelion (jokingly referred to as TINT, much to his chagrin) and long-time friend, greets her with a warm but tired smile. She gets up- not even sure why she bothered sitting down in the first place- to pull the older man into a hug that he tiredly returns. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Same to you,” she murmurs, pulling away to smile broadly at him.

“I see you’ve brought…” he trails off, eyes going wide as his gaze falls on the men behind her. He pales, looking for all the world as though he’s seen a ghost. Darcy frowns, turning around to see that Phil is staring at Roger with something close to terror and awe in his eyes.

“Phil?” she says cautiously. “There a reason you’re staring at Roger like he’s the second coming?”

“Darcy,” Phil croaks, eyes not leaving a now uncomfortable-looking Roger, “where did you find these men?”

Darcy carefully pulls Roger over to her, and he moves easily enough, hiding him behind her as though she can offer some kind of barrier between the men. Phil glances at Evangeline and if anything his eyes grow wider, making a soft, almost wounded sound at the back of his throat and _wonderful_ , now both her boys are unnerved. Perfect.  “That’s what I what wanted to talk to you about. I found a Shield compound.”

Both men look at her sharply. “A _Shield_ compound?” Clint asks, looking surprised.

“Yup,” she replies, taking care to pop the ‘P’. “Underground bunker in Buffalo, Missouri. Several levels, lots of rooms… working ventilation system.”

“Buffalo?” Phil frowns, eyes still swinging between Roger and Evangeline. “I don’t remember any facilities there.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says grimly. “Because as it turns out, it _wasn’t_ Shield. It was Hydra.”

They stare at her in shock. A weighted silence reigns, a flurry of emotions running across their faces. “I think,” Phil finally says hoarsely, “that maybe this is a conversation best held whilst sitting down.”

Darcy nods shortly. “That’s probably for the best.”

“Hydra’s dead,” Clint says as soon as everyone is sitting back down. Roger and Evangeline shift uncomfortably in their seats on either side of Darcy. She’s not sure if it’s because their chairs are ugly, straight backed things, or because they don’t like hearing that word. “It died off after WWII.”

“Well apparently it didn’t.” She sits back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs, uncaring if it comes across as defensive. She knows Clint and Phil trust her explicitly. “I found this pair in the bunker. They’d been kept in cold storage this whole time.”

Evangeline, when she glances at him, is staring, expressionless, at his hands. Darcy swallows thickly, almost wishing she could have this conversation without them, but she knows they deserve to be here.

“Cold storage?” Phil asks carefully from the other side of the desk. His gaze keeps on sticking on Roger.

“Cryogenic tanks.”

The room falls silent once again. Phil looks faintly ill. She nods in agreeance.

“I _know._ You should have seen this place- they obviously built it to last an apocalypse- it’d probably been around since the Cold War. Back-up generators, solar on the house above ground, a working ventilation system.”

“And working cryo tanks.”

She nods grimly. “And working cryo tanks. I’ve never seen anything like it before; it’s like The Turning never touched the place. Even their computers were still working!”

“Computers!” Clint exclaims, gaze turning nostalgic. “Fuck- for real?”

New Triskelion is no stranger to computers, but most of them are a mess of scavenged parts and repaired pieces that saw better days at least five years ago. The twenty-first century was not known for their ability to make things last more than a few years. They have consumerism to thank for that.

Phil leans back in his chair. He seems to have calmed down somewhat, though he still keeps on staring at Roger, looking pale and shaken as he takes in her companion. “I suppose that makes sense… but Darcy, do you know who these men are?”

“No. They don’t know, either” she says flatly and Roger sticks his jaw out in defiance at Clint and Phil, as though daring them to challenge that statement. "From their files, it seemed like Hydra used to wipe their memories between missions.”

She doesn’t tell them that she know that they were used primarily be Hydra for assassinations. It’s maybe not a topic for a first conversation.

“Darcy,” Phil says slowly, “I am ninety-five percent certain that your new friends are Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James Barnes… or some variation, thereof.”

She stares at them blankly. Out of the corner of her eyes, her companions- if possible- are sitting even straighter than before.

“You been sniffing gas, Phil?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he breathes. Her turns slightly to address the men directly. “Do you know who Captain America and Bucky Barnes are?”

In heartbreaking unison, they shake their heads. Phil looks like he’s been shot in the gut.

“What _do_ you remember?”

They remain silent, but Darcy’s not sure if it’s because they don’t actually know, or if it’s because they don’t want to speak in front of two men they don’t know. It’s not really an issue, though, because it’s clear they have no idea who Phil is talking about.

“What the fuck would Captain America and his pal be doing in the middle of America? They _died_ , Phil. Everyone knows that.”

“And yet,” Phil sighs, “here we are, staring at their doppelgangers.”

She stares at her companions, studying them in a way she hadn’t before. Now that she’s looking, she can see the obvious resemblance and she wonders why she never saw it before. Roger is the spitting image of the legendary man, from the blonde hair to the cheekbones and jawline she has a faint memory of fantasising over as a pre-teen girl. Evangeline’s likeness is harder to find behind the scruff and long hair, but it’s still there now that she’s gone looking.

God, but she’s a fucking idiot.

“So what are you saying?” she asks shakily. “Are we talking about clones?”

Phil stares thoughtfully at the three of them. ‘I don’t know- possibly. With your memories gone, there’s no way of telling for sure.”

“How did you…” Roger pipes in, the first time he’s spoken since Clint showed up. Phil’s mouth falls open slightly at the sound of his voice. “How did you recognise us?”

The older man clears his throat, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. Clint snickers, rolling his eyes. “That’s ‘cause Coulson is a closet Captain America fanboy.”

Darcy smirks. “Is that why you wanted me to find you that world war two book last year?”

Phil’s eyes narrow and Darcy smiles at him sweetly. He clears his throat again. “Be that as it may, until you remember more, I don’t see that there’s much that we can do.” And bless him, but Phil looks like he’s physically in pain to say that. It’s true though; it’s not like there’s much that can do, what with Shield long gone. “Do you have any idea what you’d like to do?”

They stare at him blankly and Darcy bites her lip to hide her smile. “They were interested in getting an apprenticeship,” she says when it becomes clear that they’re not going to say anything.

Clint and Phil’s eyebrows rise. “You gonna teach them, Darce?” Clint asks, a faint, disbelieving smirk in place. He knows well Darcy’s long-lived aversion of taking apprentices. Unsurprising given it was Clint that Darcy sent Kate to when she turned her down.

Darcy rubs at her lips- they feel chapped and dry. “I might be.”

The man cackles in glee. Phil looks surprised. “So the Wanderer _has_ broken her dry spell.”

“Try drought,” Phil joins in. He smiles approvingly at Darcy and she crosses her arms again, defensive.

“Yeah, whatever,” she growls, standing up abruptly. The room fills with the loud scrape of chairs as Roger and Evangeline (she won’t start calling them Steve and Bucky until they know for sure- they chose those names, after all) copy her. “Maybe I’m just getting old and soft like you losers.”

Clint barks a laugh as he and Phil join them. “Oh sweetheart, you wish.”

“Doubtful.” Her stomach twinges insistently. “I think we’d better go find some food to eat.”

There’s a slightly hopeful look on Roger’s face at her statement and she grins, “Clint will take you down to Barlay’s. I’ve just got one more thing to talk to Phil about.”

Phil blinks in surprise as Clint crosses his arms, amusement in his eyes. “Oh, I will, will I?”

“You sure will,” Darcy says sweetly. “You know New Triskelion better than me; who better to give them a tour?”

He sighs heavily, but it’s obvious he doesn’t really mind. “Fine. But you owe me.”

She winks at him. “Don’t I always?”

Clint grumbles something illegible beneath his breath and stalks out of the room. Darcy sends Roger and Evangeline a warm and encouraging smile when they send her a doubtful look. “Go; Clint’s a good guy. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

Evangeline swallows and nods slowly, turning around to follow her friend. Roger trails behind him with only a brief second glance.

Phil leans against his desk as soon as they’re gone, breathing out slowly. “That is…”

“Incredible? Depressing?”

“Unbelievable.”

Darcy huffs a laugh and sits back down in her chair, slouching back. “God Phil, you wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had.”

He laughs through his nose, crossing his arms and Darcy remembers that this is the man that used to be the handler of Clint and Natasha, before The Turning. “I think I can empathise.”

“Yeah, well Phil, they’re not the only thing I found,”

The man sends her a level look, game face falling into place at the serious tone of her voice. “It’s been an eventful hunt for you, hasn’t it?”

She nods, smiling wryly. “Just a touch. But Phil, we ended up finding another Shield facility. And I brought back a souvenir from there, too.”

The man perks up in interest, standing up straight. “Where?”

“About a day’s drive west of Magnolia,” she stands up, moving over to one of his maps to run her finger across the route she took. Phil hovers behind her, and he sucks in a breath of surprise when her finger stops at roughly where she thinks the base is.

“What did it look like?”

Darcy turns back to face him; there’s an intense expression on his face, as though he already knows what she’s going to say. “It looked like an aircraft hangar. Pretty big, lots of glass an steel. And inside-”

“Was a crater,” Phil breathes, staring at her with wide eyes. “Darcy, what exactly did you bring back?”

Her eyes narrow at him. There’s something expectant in his gaze; something like anticipation. Excitement. “Phil, you’re kind of freaking me out.”

“ _What did you bring back, Darcy?_ ”

She glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “If you must know, we found a hammer.”

The breath escapes him in one big gust of air. He clutches at her bicep with a tight grip. “Did you touch it? Try to pick it up?”

She glances away. His excitement is really starting to unnerve her. She’s suddenly not sure if she’s comfortable telling him now. “We all did.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And,” he seems on the verge of rolling his eyes, “did one of you pick it up?” She’s silent for a long moment and his grip on her arm grows a little tighter. “ _Darcy_.”

“Alright, _fine_. Yes, I picked it up, okay?  Roger and Evangeline tried, but it stuck to the ground like it weighted a thousand tonnes. It was really weird and-”

Phil laughs suddenly and pulls Darcy into a hug. She stiffens at the touch, but Phil is laughing in wonder and happiness, and it’s such a novel sound she can’t bring herself to burst his bubble. “Oh my God- _Darcy!_ ”

“What, Phil? You’re freaking me out.”

“You found it! Oh my God, you found it!”

She growls in annoyance and shoves him away. Phil looks too buzzed to care. “Found _what,_ Phil? It’s just a magic hammer.”

He barks out a disparaging laugh. “ _Darcy_ , you found Mjolnir! You found Thor’s hammer!”


	10. Barclay's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Tears, stars, Natasha and some guy smoking weed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME HOUSEKEEPING: Last chapter I stated the Shield base was about a day’s drive south of Magnolia, Arkansas. I fucked up; I actually mean a day’s west of Magnolia. The error has been fixed in the previous chapter, thanking you kindly ^.^

Darcy feels very much like the floor has been pulled out from under her.

“What?” she breathes, feeling winded. She stumbles backwards, reaching out blindly for a chair. “It’s- _what?_ ”

Phil’s excited expression disappears, replaced with concern as he follows her. He leans against his desk and she all but collapses into the uncomfortable chair. “Mjolnir was Thor’s hammer, before he was banished to Earth.”

Darcy leans forwards to rest her elbows on her knees and stare unseeing at her boots. “I thought Mjolnir was an axe or something,” she laughs shakily, eyes squeezing closed.

“An _axe?_ ” Phil parrots in something close to disgust. “You thought Thor, the god of thunder and fertility, had an _axe?_ ”

Darcy makes a faint sound of annoyance. “Phil, it’s been _seven goddamn years_. In the scheme of things it’s kind of an inconsequential fact, don’t you think?”

He sobers, sighing heavily. “You’re right. Sorry.”

She waves it away with one of the hands clutching at her head. “S’fine… What’s it even doing on Earth though?”

Phil sighs again. “From what I gathered, Thor suspected his father sent it down for him to find and reclaim his right to the throne. Like a quest.”

“Magic hammer of destiny?” she laughs shakily. Phil joins her.

“Magic hammer of destiny.”

Darcy breathes in deeply, searching for that well of peace inside her; the one she’d used extensively after she’d found herself alone in the desert, missing her last companion.  

Thor.

Beautiful, loud and boisterous Thor. _God,_ her heart aches at the thought of him. She remembers him talking about Mjolnir, every now and then; less so as the years passed after he first appeared, only to renew his interest in the weapon after Jane died. And she… she _has_ it now. All those years. All those years of her only half-believing him and now his beloved weapon is sitting in the tray of her truck, not even covered.

She swallows. “How did you know about it?”

“You mean besides all the times he used to bemoan its loss?” She lifts her head to glare at him and Phil raises his hand in surrender. “When Thor came down to Earth, Shield investigated another energy reading, almost identical to his. They found the hammer. No one could lift it- could even budge it- it reacted to nothing we did, but gave off readings our scientist has never seen before. So Shield listed it as an 0-8-4 and built a base around it when it became clear it wasn’t going anywhere.”

Her breath catches in her throat. She sits up to stare at him. “And you never- you never _told_ him? Not even when you employed us?”

After Thor appeared, Shield began showing an avid interest in Jane and her work; _especially_ after they stole all her research. They’d eventually returned it, but Jane had never trusted the organisation, even when Darcy managed to convince her to take their employment offer.

Phil shrugs helplessly. “It was an 0-8-4; above your clearance level. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.”

She sighs and slouches into her chair. “Your hands were tied. I get it.” She frowns, studying her friend intently. He’s getting on in years, forehead and hands dotted with more than a few sun spots from the harsh sun in the Wastes. “So how’d he find out?”

Phil sighs, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks sad. “After Jane died… Thor drank a lot.” Darcy grimaces. She remembers him coming back to the little apartment they’d rented whilst Jane was pregnant, drunk and morose, the smell of moonshine on his breath and the taste of tears on his tongue. “Clint and I tried to be with him most times,” Darcy remembers that. She’d been too messed up to join him at the bar; of sound mind enough to recognise that it would be a mistake to join him. “We tried to keep him out of trouble. One night we got on to talking about Shield and unusual cases, and I started telling the story of the real life sword in the stone Shield found in 2011. The hammer that fell to Earth, that no one could use.”

Darcy bites her lip. She feels as though she’s almost floating, caught between a state of shock, horror and awe. “Mjolnir,” she murmurs. Phil tilts his head in agreeance.

“Thor recognised it from the description. And… well, we’d never been sure if we could connect the two appearances, but the timing was the same, their energy readings had been close, and his description of the hammer was identical.”

“And then we went out looking for it.”

Phil nods. “The next day. I could only give him a rough estimate of where it was- we were as drunk as he was, and you two were gone before I could tell him more.”

Darcy can’t forget that night; they’d gotten into a vicious fight about it. Darcy had wanted to stay in New Triskelion a little longer; they weren’t ready to hunt again, it was too soon, they were too messed up. Leaving then was a disaster waiting to happen. But Thor had been adamant that they leave _then_ , caught up in his renewed purpose and vigour that Darcy couldn’t understand. He spoke of a weapon that could turn the tides of their war against the Shades; of his weapon that could surely tear apart a Shade in moments.

And against her better judgement, she’d agreed and they left New Triskelion as the sunrise marked a new day.

Five days later Thor was dead and Darcy was alone.

Darcy covers the bottom half of her face, standing up abruptly. “Excuse me,” she shudders, eyes _burning._ “I need to-”

“Darcy-” Phil starts, but Darcy is already turning about face and running away. She stumbles through HQ on shaking legs, moving blindly through her stinging tears. Her throat feels like it’s about to close on her and she gasps loudly as she moves upwards, taking the flight of stairs that lead to the top floor of the building, grateful that she doesn’t come across any hunters.

In her distress, she almost flies straight past the room she’s looking for. She falls against it, chest heaving as she rests her head against the cool wood, hand fumbling for the handle. Darcy slams the door behind her and heads straight for the window, weaving between the lines of desks; breath coming short in her lungs as though drowning. The cold air that rushes into the room when she wrenches open the window is a balm against her burning skin and she climbs out of the window. She clutches at the window ledge and edges herself across to the ladder a foot away, latching herself to the metal rails with a practiced ease despite her distressed state.

She climbs upwards, somehow still holding herself together despite all the evidence to the contrary. Not that it means much when her hands hit ceramic roof tiles and she’s scrambling up onto the roof. She collapses onto the lightly slanted surface, boots gripping the smooth tiles and preventing her from slipping. They’re still slightly warm from the heat of the day. She pushes herself further up the roof, wedging herself between two solar panels. The edges press against the side of thighs, slightly uncomfortable but not enough for her to care.

Darcy lies back against the tiles, the bright stars blurred with her tears, flowing freely now. She clutches at her sides, letting out a hitching sob that seems to echo around her despite the open sky before her.

“ _Fuck_.”

Thor’s hammer.

She has Thor’s hammer.

“Fucking _fuck_.”

Darcy sobs up at the stars, torn between joy and grief and unsure which one she should land on. It’s both a blessing and a curse, to have found Mjolnir. On the one hand, she’s found something to tie her back to her friend, when she had nothing for so long; something that meant a great deal to him, and is obviously an object of great power. And yet… she wonders, if Phil had never told him about Mjolnir… would Thor still be with her? Would she have never lost the man? Would she never have been alone?

The thought makes her weep in earnest, pressing a hand against her mouth to muffle her sound. Everything hurts and Darcy is suddenly so _tired._

Tired of fighting. Tired of just surviving. _God,_ but she’s just tired of being _alone_.

She’s been on her lonesome for _so long_. No partner, no family; few friends. And Darcy’s always been fine with that; she didn’t _mind_ keeping everyone at arm’s length, because at least then she couldn’t be touched by their inevitable loss. She could work without having to be worried about being compromised. And yet here she is, feeling like she’s being torn apart by the grief of a loss seven years old.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she gasps up at the sky. She wonders if Thor and Jane and their child are looking down at her. Is she a disappointment to them? Do they even care? “I don’t know if I can carry this mantle.”

Because if there’s one thing she’s certain of, it’s that if she touches Mjolnir ever again, it will be with the resolve to never let it go. To fight until her final breath; nothing more and nothing less.

She keens at the thought of Thor doing exactly the same and how fucking _unfair_ it was to have lost him so soon after Jane.

“What do I do?” she asks the stars above, in a moment of weakness. Their shapes are blurred and indistinct and more than anything she wishes for the wiry strength of Jane against her side, the solid warmth of Thor sitting beside her, the chorus of three people breathing and the knowledge that she _belonged_.

But she is alone and the sky offers her no answer. Darcy sighs shakily, breath wet, skin cold from unchecked tears running down her face. Her thoughts turn to Roger and Evangeline and she laughs bitterly. Her life has been a walk in the park compared to theirs and oddly, she finds comfort in that thought.

For better or worse, the men have attached themselves to her, and for the first time in an age, she’s willing to let them stay. Even relishes the thought of passing on her knowledge to her. Of protecting them from the world while they can’t protect themselves.

God, but it feels almost like a reason to fight. A _real_ reason.

The thought is a novel one.

 

 

Natasha finds her some twenty minutes later, all cried-out, staring blankly up at the endless spread of stars. She’s starting to feel a little cold, but not enough to merit her getting up. Roger and Evangeline are safe in Phil and Clint’s hands for the time being. It would probably do them some good to socialise with people other than herself, anyway. They are not children.

“Phil suspected you’d be up here, Принцесса,” Natasha says softly. Darcy sighs up at the stars and motions her over with a lazy hand wave.

“Tasha,” she murmurs, eyes slipping closed. “Did he send you?”

The soft sound of booted feet moving across the ceramic tiles. She’s always been remarkably light on her feet (unlike Darcy). “He suggested it might be beneficial to check on you.”

Darcy smiles wryly but doesn’t bother opening her eyes. “He tell you why?”

Natasha sits down at her head, and Darcy sighs when one of her cool-fingered hands touches her head, almost tentatively. “He may have said something about a hammer.”

“A hammer,” Darcy snorts. “Well that’s the understatement of the century. Natasha, it’s _Thor’s_ hammer.”

The fingers that begin running through her hair don’t pause in their travel. Darcy can only assume that the woman already knows it. “Have you used it?”

Darcy opens her eyes, tilting her head backwards slightly to look at her on and off again lover. She hasn’t changed much over the years, though the length of her hair seems to change every eight months or so. At the moment it’s on the long side, pulled back into a messy ponytail.

“I have.”

“What’s it like?”

“Like nothing you’ve ever used before,” Darcy sighs, heart twinging at the thought. “Nothing like your staffs, Tasha. I killed a level three Shade with two swings… and a few hits before I used the hammer, I guess. It just blasted through it like it was nothing.”

Above her, Natasha breathes in sharply. “I can see why Thor would want to find it,” she says eventually, and Darcy sniffles.

“Yeah,” she says hoarsely. Natasha’s hand smooths across Darcy’s forehead gently and she smiles sadly up at her. “I just… it keeps running through my head… what if Phil never said anything about it? Would he- would-”

“Would Thor still be here?”

Darcy swallows thickly and nods. She studies Natasha’s face desperately for some kind of answer, but all she finds is soft affection. “I don’t know,” Natasha says and runs a few stray strands of Darcy’s hair through her fingers contemplatively. “Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. But he died a long time ago… I can’t give you the answers you’re looking for, Darcy.”

She scrunches her eyes tightly, Natasha a solid mass at her head. Trust her to say it like it is. “I miss them.”

“As do I. But in times like these, it’s better to focus on the present, rather than the past, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Darcy breathes out shakily, lifting a hand to clutch at Natasha’s. She thinks of Roger and Evangeline, and how lost they must be. “I guess.”

Natasha squeezes at the joined hands tightly, and lets her go when Darcy heaves herself up into a sitting position. “I’d best find the boys before something disastrous inevitably happens.”

Natasha huffs a laugh, and stays where she is as Darcy scoots her way over to the ladder on her ass. “I heard about your new companions. You’re starting to make a habit of finding lost things.”

“Please, Tasha,” Darcy snorts. “Finding two unrelated things in the span of a week does not a habit make. It was just sheer dumb luck.”

“Next thing you know, you’ll be finding the Holy Grail,” Natasha carries on, unabashedly amused. “The Lost Arc. That crystal skull.”

“You are the worst,” Darcy laughs, feet on the top rung of the ladder. Natasha sends her a wicked smile and Darcy laughs again, shaking her head as she starts down. Natasha isn’t far behind her, landing with light feet on the wooden floor inside the building only moments after Darcy slides through.  

“And yet you still keep me around.”

“Keep you around? Why do you think I go away for so long?”

“Because you are running, Принцесса ** _._** ”

Darcy flinches, looking away from the woman. She squeezes at the hand that slips into hers. “So what if I am?”

Natasha shrugs, pulling her away and out of the classroom. “That’s the thing with running,” the older woman murmurs with another squeeze of their joined hands. “You have to stop and catch your breath eventually.”

“Do you think up nuggets of wisdom like that on the fly, or do you just steal them from books?” Darcy sighs heavily and lets Natasha lead her through HQ. They come across more people than Darcy’d noticed before, but all keep away; Darcy and Natasha both have equally intimidating reputations.

“A little bit of column A, a little of column B?” She laughs and Natasha’s hand moves from hers, rising upwards to connect with the crook of Darcy’s elbow. “They’re at Barclay’s, by the way.”

Darcy breathes a minor sigh of relief. At least Phil had the sense to take them there; fully functioning adults or not, she’s fairly certain it’s not a good idea to overload either of them with stimuli so soon after they woke. Then again, they’ve proved perfectly capable of handling themselves in stressful situations so far.

They drive to Barclay’s; not because it’s particularly far away, but Darcy feels more secure knowing that her truck- still loaded with gear- is nearby. They can deal with passing on her finds later, after they’ve eaten.

Barclay’s is one of the better hostels in town. Once an old school, it’s been renovated into several single-sex and shared dorms, ranging from four people to eight. The place reminds her of the youth hostels she stayed in more than once over her college years, before she met Jane; only with a lower chance of contracting an STI. The glorified hostel doesn’t offer much in the way of entertainment though, but the bar is good- if crowded- and it offers good food and drinks that are unlikely are unlikely to give you alcohol poisoning, which is more than she can say about some of the bars around the place.

It was their preferred place of residence, back when it was Thor, Jane and Darcy trawling the Wastes.

She parks the truck around the back; the only one there that’s still packed, which makes her feel a little twitchy, but she knows that no one here is likely to steal anything. New Triskelion’s always been good with that.

Her stomach rumbles at the thought of proper food (and God willing, actual _meat_ ) and Natasha sends her an amused look as they stroll back around to the front. They pass a man slouched against the wall of the building, smoke rising lazily from his hand. Darcy doesn’t recognise him, but Natasha nods at him as they walk pass and he spares them a half-hearted wave, eyes returning to the stars a moment later. The space around him smells overwhelmingly of weed, and Darcy hides a grin beneath her hand.

“Have you seen them yet?” Darcy asks, the dull sound of laughter, singing and a guitar reaching them through an open window.

“Not yet,” Natasha hums. The fingers of one hand tap in time to the guitar on her thigh. “But I hear they’re rather high profile.”

Darcy snorts and nudges the older woman in the side with her elbow. “Captain America and Bucky Barnes? Can’t get more high profile than that.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha teases. “You could have found Agent Carter, back from the dead.”

Darcy huffs a laugh. The woman had always been more of her hero than Captain America had. She has vague memories of cutting the hair of one of her Barbies and trying to colour its hair brown with a marker when her mom refused to buy her one the of limited edition Agent Carter action dolls. Molly Lewis had been more exasperated than angry, much to the relief of seven year old Darcy.

Natasha rests opens the door for her and Darcy walks into Barclay’s Bar. Something inside her chest loosens a little at the familiar sight; inside is warm and well-lit by battery-powered electric lights, tables and chairs of various sizes scratched and dented, the walls lined with crotchet-square blankets and an ugly mix-match of paintings and drawings in various styles. The whole place is an eyesore, but in the best of ways; ugly, kitsch and poorly thought-out, it looks like a group of grandmothers have thrown the contents of their homes into one big room (probably because they have. Barclay’s has been run by the iron fist of Prue Barclay and her knitting cronies for years). It feels homely. Welcoming.

Darcy spots Clint, Coulson and her boys easily enough. By some miracle of nature, they’ve managed to snag a table in the far corner of the room (usually the first spot to be taken. Many hunters are jumpy and paranoid as hell), and Roger and Evangeline are picking away at two large bowls of food, suspicion clear on their faces. Darcy grins at them when they look up and moves to join them, but is stopped by the sudden and fierce grip of Natasha’s hand on her shoulder, tugging her back.

“Natasha, what the-”

“Darcy,” Natasha hisses, eyes glued on Roger and Evangeline as she forcibly pulls Darcy behind her, a knife appearing in her free hand. “You need to leave right fucking _now_.”

And then she’s pulling her arm back to throw the knife, aimed straight for her new apprentices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Принцесса - Princess


	11. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy diffuses a situation and eats some cornbread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS!!!! This fic now has a coverpage made by the talented Romanoffsbite!!! I strongly suggest you check it out (in ch1) because HOLY SHIT IS IT'S AWESOME!!!!! XD
> 
>  
> 
> Posting this early because I thought it was cruel to leave you on such a cliffhanger. ^.^
> 
> Translations of lines in Russian can be found at the end of the chapter. Just tap the number at the end of the line of dialogue and it will take you to the translation at the end of the page. To return to where you were, just tap on the translation number and it will take you back up! :)

Darcy squawks in surprise, moving in front of Natasha and gripping her arm without really thinking. “Natasha- hey- _hey! What the fuck?_ ”

Natasha doesn’t spare her so much as a glance, eyes trained on the men at the table behind her. Darcy scowls in annoyance and tugs the knife out of the woman’s grip, knowing she needs to disarm this situation, and fast.

 _That_ gets her attention.

“Darcy,” the redhead says coldly, a little crazy eyed around the edges. “You need to leave.”

Darcy scowls at her. “Like fucking hell I do! What the shit, Tasha? You can’t just attack them-”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Do _you_?”

“Yes, I do.”

The bar’s gone quiet, Darcy notices as she gapes at her. Roger and Evangeline are standing up, weapons drawn (and honestly by this point Darcy is just exasperated), Clint and Phil looking unnerved by the abrupt change in atmosphere. Darcy groans inwardly at the whole thing; whatever shit Natasha’s got going on has undoubtedly set her boys back a step or two.

“You- hang on, _what?_ Tasha, you know them?”

“I do,” the older woman says grimly, and Darcy has to grip at her shoulders to stop the older woman from moving around her, like some kind of ridiculous, redheaded shield. “They’re _assassins_. I’ve come across them before, on separate occasions- I didn’t know they were- держаться подальше от нее![1]” she hisses at the men, moving towards Darcy and Natasha, and she pulls out another knife. Darcy makes a sound of frustration at the back of her throat and clutches her arm tightly, uncaring that she might leave bruises.

“ _Natasha, I know,_ ” she growls, and plucks the second knife from her hand. “That’s _not_ who they are anymore.”

Natasha’s disbelieving eyes turn on Darcy, flashing dangerously. “He _shot_ me!”

Darcy gapes at her a moment before recovering. “Tasha,” she says lowly, aware they have something on an audience now. “They’ve been stuck in cryo for over a decade. They’ve been stuck under Hydra’s thumb for who knows how fucking long.”

“They’re _assassins_ , Darcy! Monsters!” Natasha at least has the sense to argue with her quietly, and Darcy’s grateful she hasn’t taken out another weapon. “These are the men you picked up? They could- have they hurt you?”

Darcy flinches, and Natasha must find what she’s looking for on her face, because she looks livid when she glances at Roger and Evangeline, shaking off Darcy’s grip and walking towards the pair of them again. “Я сказал, держаться подальше![2]” she snarls, pointing at them. They stop, but don’t move when Clint and Phil try to tug them back to the table. Darcy moans in frustration and chases after her, grabbing one of her hands.  

“Natasha, I _swear_ , they haven’t hurt me!”

Natasha stares at Darcy, gaze travelling over her, trying to gauge if she’s lying or not. “If I find out-”

“They _haven’t_. Tasha, the white knight act is sweet and all, but you know _perfectly_ well that I can take care of myself. Possible former super-soldiers assassins or not.”

And God _dammit_ , but Darcy really wishes they could have this conversation in private.

The woman backs down slightly, looking mulish but somewhat shame-faced (as much as the impassive woman can look shame-faced, at least). “I’m sorry, принцесса[3]. But they’re dangerous… you need to be careful around them.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Darcy scoffs quietly, and shoots a fierce glare at some idiot hunter trying to subtly mosey into their conversation. The kid backs away looking embarrassed and something inside her preens at the sight. Still got it. “I spend eighty percent of my time in the most dangerous environment known to man. I’m not stupid; do you really think I don’t realise they’re dangerous? Tasha, I picked them out of a fucking _Hydra_ base! I’m fully aware they’ve problems coming out the wazoo.”

Natasha’s eyes widen in shock. “Hydra?”

Darcy nods shortly. “Turns out, Shield wasn’t as squeaky clean as we’d like to think.” Natasha looks almost _confused_ , which is an improvement from the stubborn anger of a moment ago. “Yes- _Shield_ ,” Darcy says quickly, before the former agent can parrot her again, “And need I mention that _you_ should know better than _anyone_ about being stuck doing terrible things at the beck and call of another.”

Natasha gives Darcy an intense stare, and for a moment Darcy fears she’s said the wrong thing. Her eyes flick between Darcy and the men and they narrow infinitesimally at the sight of Roger and Evangeline, weapons still trained on her.

“Eсли вы ей боль, я убью тебя.[4]”

The soldiers lower their weapons, almost in unison. “Мы не будем,[5]” Roger says, and Darcy is really starting to wish she’d taken Russian back in college. She grimaces at all three of them. Clint shares a look of commiseration with her.

“Are we good now?”

Natasha settles into something easier, the rigid lines of her shoulders falling into a slight slouch, and the creases around her mouth ease away. “We’re good, Darcy.”

“Great,” she drawls, and motions to her soldiers. “Then if you don’t mind, I think we’d all appreciate it if you two put your guns away, hey?”

Roger and Evangeline grudgingly stow their weapons away and she smiles at them in thanks, tugging Natasha over to their table. “Good ex-assassins,” she coos, and Natasha snorts just like Darcy expected her to. “Now, _please_ tell me there’s a bowl there for me.”

She sits down on one of the rickety chairs, not bothering to see if anyone else is going to join her, and Clint- bless his poor daft soul- pushes a covered bowl towards her. The thick ceramic is still warm and she moans with delight when the smell of richly spiced tomatillo stew wafts towards her, cooked with enough jalapenos to bring a tear or two to her eye; or maybe that’s the sight of _real pork_ swimming in the hearty meal.

“Kitty, I could fucking kiss you,” she murmurs as Grace, and pulls the skillet of cornbread towards her. Roger and Evangeline sit down beside her and before she knows it, Darcy’s surrounded by her friends- old and new. She doesn’t miss the tension running through the air between the five of them though; Evangeline, Roger and Natasha appear to be caught in a staring contest. Darcy rolls her eyes at Natasha and crumbles her bread into the stew.

As though sensing the avoided conflict, the noise begins to fill the space again and Darcy can almost _feel_ the sensation of several sets of eyes turning away from them, interests now sated.

They eat in relative silence; Darcy tucking into her meal with gusto and Roger and Evangeline not far behind her now that she’s here. Natasha, Clint and Phil ask the occasional query about her hunting trip and Darcy makes the appropriate comments- what she found, how many kills she made, where she went- but she doesn’t miss the way Natasha’s gaze barely leaves her companions- Evangeline in particular.

“ты застрелил меня,[6]” she says to him eventually. Evangeline blinks at her, his food almost finished. Darcy and Roger have already eaten all of theirs, though Roger is eyeing the remaining cornbread speculatively. She rolls her eyes and pushes the skillet over to him, wordlessly giving him permission to finish it.

Evangeline frowns, glancing down at his hands. The metal of his left hand gleams brightly under the electric lights. “Я сожалею,” he says haltingly, “я не помню.[7]”

Natasha is silent for a long moment, and Darcy watches with bated breath, worried and curious as to how this will play out. Eventually, she sits back in her chair- the aged pleather cracked and browned- arms crossed against her chest. “Я прощаю тебя,” she says, steel hidden behind her words and a threatening glint in her eyes. “Но моя угроза остается.[8]”

“Мы не будем причинить ей боль,[9]” Evangeline growls. Roger glares at her, the effect lost somewhat by the crumbling chunk of cornbread hovering just below his mouth. The corner of Natasha’s lip twitches at the sight and she reaches over to steal Clint’s drink. The archer squawks in outrage and Darcy and Phil share a look of exasperated fondness.

 _It’s good to be back_ , Darcy thinks to herself, and steals a piece of cornbread from what’s left in the skillet. _It’s good to be home_.

 

 

 

Darcy wakes with a start, mind swimming with fading memories of being chased by the mafia and the sudden knowledge that she is being watched. She rolls onto her side, hand sliding up beneath her pillow where she tucked her knife before she’d gone to sleep.

Only to open her eyes and slump back into the foam mattress when she realises it’s just Evangeline… standing some feet away from her bunk, staring at her intently.

Darcy withdraws her hand from beneath the pillow and rubs at eyes that feel tired and gummy. “Hey,” she rasps, glancing around the room. They’d ended up sharing a four person dorm; mostly so Darcy could keep an eye on them (that, and it seemed like they weren’t keen on the idea of sleeping with a room full of strangers anyway). It’s still daylight – probably some time in the early afternoon, and a thin streak of yellow light peeks through the industrial strength blackout curtains, marking a bright line across the floor and Darcy’s discarded boots and clothes. “You sleep okay?”

Evangeline lifts his shoulder in an abortive shrug. She sighs, taking him in. He looks rested, but there’s no way of telling for sure. In his loose wife-beater and sweatpants, he looks disarmingly domestic; silver arm or not, he looks like he belongs in someone’s house, cooking them breakfast and lounging on their sofa late at night. The kind of guy Darcy would have killed to keep around before the Turning. He’s very pretty, Darcy thinks, and the graceful curve of muscle down his flesh arm and shoulder is sinfully beautiful.

She digs her thumbnail into the knuckle of her index finger to bring her back to the present.

“Bad…” he tries, a faint frown forming between his eyes as he stares at the space below her bunk.

“Bad dreams?” she offers and he nods. Darcy glances up at the top bunk opposite her, but Roger looks to be fast asleep and of no help. She sighs again and beckons him closer. “Sit down,” she tells him tiredly and he complies, sitting cross-legged at the head of her bed. “Can I touch you?”

Evangeline looks up at her, slightly startled and Darcy smiles at him sleepily. Slowly, he nods and Darcy lets out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She pats the edge of the bed, yawning widely but knowing she probably won’t get back to sleep now. “Rest your head, kiddo.”

Evangeline gives her an odd look at the term of endearment, but lays his head against the scratchy sheets all the same. Darcy rests her hand tentatively on his hair; Evangeline stiffens at the touch and she freezes, holding herself still as she watches him slowly- and forcibly- relax himself. “Okay?”

He nods again, resting his face against the mattress to stare down at the foot of her bed. Carefully, telegraphing her movements so he has any opportunity to leave, Darcy begins to run her fingers through his hair. Evangeline starts at the movement, huffing an almost silent exclamation of surprise before pushing up into her fingers. She smiles again, slowly carding through his hair, working out the tangles, trying to be as gentle as possible.

The movement is familiar; Darcy remembers doing this for Jane and Thor- both for comfort and pleasure- and the memory of spending cold nights in Jane’s old camper, running her fingers through Jane’s hair as the scientist sprawled, cat-like, across her less-than-spacious bed, or sitting with Thor between her legs, playing with his hair and putting it up in elaborate braids that always made Jane laugh. Evangeline’s hair is greasy and slightly unpleasant to the touch, but it makes her smile happily all the same when he huffs again, tilting his head to follow her scratching fingers just like Jane used to.

“Where are we going today?” Evangeline says after a time. It looks like it takes a great deal of effort to speak, and Darcy’s not sure if it’s because of her ministrations, or the remnants of his nightmare, but she’s not about to push him to find out.

“Well,” she hums, “when I can be bothered to get up, I need to sell some shit. I don’t like keeping everything in the truck for an extended period of time; it’s not a good policy.”

Evangeline nods slowly and Darcy pauses for a moment, biting her lip. Evangeline huffs again and she starts up her petting again, hair mostly free of tangles now. “Listen… I wanted to ask you… If you wanted… would you rather be called Bucky now? Now that you know who you are?”

The man is silent for a long time, the faint whirring of the gears in his arm the only thing to be heard in the dim stillness of the room. He tilts his head backwards to look at her and Darcy keeps her face neutral, unwilling to influence whichever decision he may make. He looks away, staring vacantly at the wall and Darcy waits patiently for him to answer.

“I don’t-” he stops, frowning. Darcy pets his head soothingly and he sets his jaw in resolve. “There’s no proof- that we’re them.”

“Do you think you might not be? Because I gotta say, you’re both the spitting image of them.”

He shrugs, sighing heavily. “Sometimes it feels like I remember- who I was; what I am… the meditation’s helped with remembering.”

Darcy nods in sudden understanding. “ _That’s_ why you’ve been meditating so much.”

He nods, and watches his metal hand gleam brightly in the dim light. “It feels good. Makes me feel better- whole. Rogers helps too,” Darcy says nothing about the slip of his name. She wonders if he even realises what he’s doing. “But I still don’t- I don’t _feel_ like him.”

“There’s no harm in wanting to keep the name you chose for yourself. It’s your life, to live as you please.”

He looks at her again, the strength of his gaze making her breath catch in her throat unexpectedly. “I want to keep the name you… I want to stay Evangeline.”

Darcy nods breathlessly. “Then you can stay Evangeline.”

He smiles at her softly- almost shyly- and Darcy smiles back. “Thank-you.”

“Do you….” she starts, biting her lip and feeling oddly unsure of herself. It’s been a long time since she’d had to deal with someone else’s baggage. “Do you want to hear a story?”

Evangeline is silent for a long time and Darcy doesn’t stop carding her fingers through his hair soothingly. “Okay,” he whispers eventually, so soft she almost doesn’t catch it. She hums and scratches just above his ear and the man makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, burying his head into the mattress.

“Alright then,” she hums, gathering her thoughts. “Then let me tell you about this one time Jane and I went chasing storms in the New Mexico desert…”

 

 

* * *

 

[1] “Keep away from her!”

[2] “I said keep away!”

[3] Princess

[4] “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

[5] “We won’t.”

[6] “You shot me.”

[7] “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

[8] “I forgive you. But my threat remains.”

[9] “We won’t hurt her.”


	12. Prudence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bath time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOWWWW I DID NOT MEAN TO LET THIS BE FORGOTTEN FOR SO LONG  
> Seriously guys I am SO sorry; uni is ramping up in intensity, and I got distracted by Be Near Me Now and my New fic Astraea. But I got this done, and I'm working on the next chapter slowly but surely. I can't give any surefire date about when it will be out; I have about six or seven pieces of assessment due and ten days of community service to fit into the next three weeks, but I'll get there ^.^

Sometime around the part where Shield steals Jane’s research, Roger gives up on his sleeping act and makes himself known by rolling onto his side and propping his head up on an arm. Darcy smiles at him when he does, hands still carding through Evangeline’s hair. His eyes trail to her hands, and Darcy tries hard not to dwell upon what he may be thinking.

She carries on with her story without stopping, and finishes her tale with Thor finally returning from his training with Shield to live with them as a bodyguard of sorts (and how he managed to convince Shield of that is still a mystery).

Darcy glances at the window when she’s finished, a hush falling back upon the room. It’s hard to tell, but she thinks it must be some time around noon. The markets will be opening up soon, preparing their stalls for buying and selling hunter gear and she hums quietly, extricating herself from the bed with a final pat and light shove to Evangeline’s head.

“Right,” she says decisively, a plan for the day forming in her mind. “I’m going to have a wash- and I suggest you guys come along too…” she puts her bag on the bed, rummaging through it until she finds the little bag of money she keeps with her. The new coins are a relatively recent ‘invention’; prior to about three years ago, most settlements used a mix of the old paper and coins of the US, but there’d been a push to make a new currency, mostly to allay the fears of many people about hunters bringing in more money from the Wastes and effectively inflating the whole system.

She rests the bag of coins beside her bag and pulls out a fresh pair of clothes. “There are public baths about a block down from us,” she explains, and nods over to their own bags. “You’ll probably want some new clothes. Nothing worse than getting straight back into dirty ones.”

They nod stiffly to move to fetch their own clothes, and before she knows it Darcy is locking the door to their room and leading them out of the dorms. Her boots tamp loudly on the concrete, but Roger and Evangeline are uncannily silent as the follow behind her. Barclay’s is largely empty of activity- most hunters try to stick to the nocturnal sleep pattern’s they have out in the wastes, and for a lot of them, noon is still early for them. Darcy takes them down to the kitchens, determined to get some food in them before they bathe. There’s an Asian-American girl Darcy doesn’t recognise stirring something in a large stainless steel pot, singing a song in what Darcy suspects is Korean in a slightly reedy voice; she falters at the sight of them and Darcy smiles. 

“Hi,” she greets her. The young woman can’t be older than about twenty. There’s a smear of flour on her cheek and sweat gathering on her upper lip. “I’m Darcy, I don’t recognise you; are you new?”

“Holy shit!” the girl utters beneath her breath, almost too soft for Darcy to catch. She stares at Darcy as though she’s seen a ghost and Darcy bites her lip to hide her amusement. The girl notices it anyway and flushes deeply, snatching her hands away from the pot to wipe them on her apron. “I came from Evanstown,” she explains, recovering quickly enough from her surprise, “about a month ago. My name’s Gabby.” She takes Darcy’s offered hand, leaving a faintly sticky residue in its place when she lets go.

“It’s nice to meed you, Gabby. Is there-”

“Gabby!” the address of another woman interrupts her and Gabby jumps slightly. “Where did you put those tomatoes, girl? I can’t find them anwhe- oh.”

Darcy grins at the tall black woman who enters the kitchen, a basket filled with fresh vegetables hanging from one arm. Her eyes narrow at the sight of Darcy and her companions. “Well, well,” she drawls, looking unimpressed. “If it ain’t the Wanderer, gracing us with her presence once again.”

Darcy shrugs, struggling not to laugh. “You know me; like to keep up the reputation of intrigue.”

Prudence Barclay’s shrewd gaze lingers on Roger and Evangeline. “I hear this time that intrigue’s well founded. You find yourself some rookies, Lewis?”

She tilts her head, feigning nonchalance. “I did. What’s it to you?”

“Absolutely shit-all,” Prue says with a straight face and Darcy can’t help it- she cracks up. Prue joins her a moment later, dumping her basket on the table and stalking towards her to swoop Darcy into a tight hug. She smells faintly of dry earth and rosemary and Darcy smiles happily at the familiar smell. “It’s good to see you girl,” the woman says into her hair, and Darcy squeezes her waist just a little tighter.

“It’s good to be back.”

They pull away and Prue holds her out at arm’s length, studying her. “You look the same as ever,” she remarks, and hint of sourness to her voice. Darcy raises a brow.

“Is it me or are you getting older? This seems to be a trend, Prue.”

The older woman’s eyes narrow and somewhere to the right, Gabby sucks in a shocked breath. But all Prue says in reply is ‘cheeky’, with a pinch of Darcy’s cheek. Darcy cackles and smacks her hand away.

“You love me.”

“Debatable,” she grumbles, “but would it kill you to turn up more often?” Her eyes glance back to Darcy’s companions and she sighs. “Prue Barclay,” she says, and there’s something about the turn of her mouth that makes Darcy suspect Phil’s had a talk with her already. “No need to introduce yourselves, boys, but I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

“We could eat,” Roger says with a slight smirk. Darcy blinks at him in surprise but Prue just looks him up and down, gaze obviously assessing.

“Nothing big, Prue,” Darcy adds; knowing Prue, she’ll go all out elsewise, but it’s too early in the day for them to really get started on breakfast yet and Darcy doesn’t want to wait around for a meal. “We’re going to the baths, but after that there’s plenty to get from the markets.”

“Oh honey, it’s like you don’t know me at all,” Prue says with a roll of her eyes. Darcy is half tempted to say she knows her far _too_ well, but she fears it’s a lost cause. “My bet is you two eat a lot,” Roger shrugs and she nods, satisfied enough with his answer. “Gabby, sugar, be a dear and grab the leftover cornbread and sweet milk, would you?”

Gabby nods mutely and disappears into the larder, returning a moment later with a large container filled with cornbread and a glass jug filled with milk. She leaves them on one of the benchtops, scurrying past Darcy somewhat nervously and returning to her pot- it’s filled with grits, Darcy suspects. Prue hums to herself in approval and plucks three large glass jars from a shelf, setting them down beside the bread and milk.

Darcy bites down on her lip to hide a grimace. She’s not the biggest fan of cornbread milk- too soggy for her tastes- but when Prudence Barclay makes you food, you’d do best not to say no. The boys sit down, watching curiously as Prue crumbles the cake into the glasses and pours over the milk. There’s a careful kind of reverence to the way she pour the milk into the glasses- as though participating in some sort of ritual- that Darcy’s always loved. Something familiar about the slow scrape of glass on wood as she pushes the meal towards them and hands over the spoons like they were made of something precious.

“Eat up, boys,” she drawls, giving Darcy a look when she spies her expressionless face. Darcy’s made no secret as to breakfast preferences. “And if you want more, help yourself.” She leaves the bowl of cornbread and the milk out, to be put away when they leave.

Evangeline and Roger eye the meal warily, but it doesn’t take long for them to dig in after Darcy starts eating. The three of them eat in silence; Prue and Gabby happy to work around them and leave them be. Both the boys eat two glasses worth of the stuff, and Darcy isn’t sure if they do it because they’re hungry, or because they enjoy it and she’s not about to ask. She sticks to just the one, wolfing the cornbread down as quickly as possible to avoid it going soggy and unpleasant.

When they’re finished, Darcy collects the cups and places them beside one of the kitchen’s large, stainless steel sinks. “Thanks Prue,” she says, smiling gratefully, and the older woman looks up from her cutting board.

“Always a pleasure, Darcy,” she says brusquely. Prue motions to the door with her knife. “Now off you get; if you want to avoid the afternoon rush, you’d best leave now.”

“Will do,” Darcy grins, and ushers the boys out of the kitchens with a final farewell to Gabby. She takes them outside, hitching up the sling of her carry bag and blinks a little at the bright afternoon sun. She contemplates grabbing her sunglasses from the truck, but in the end chooses against it; it somehow feels unfair to wear them when Roger and Evangeline are without.

The baths are only two or three blocks of Barclays, and the three of them walk through the streets of New Triskelion in a companionable silence. Darcy looks for changes in the scenery of NT, but finds little to none, and Roger and Evangeline watch every car that passes them with thinly-veiled suspicion, their keen eyes assessing every possible threat they pass. Two children playing in the dusty front yard of a house are worth a pair of fierce glares; an elderly couple sharing lunch on their porch see not much better but the few pushbikes that ride past them on the road merit some subtle movements towards who knows how many concealed weapons they have on them.

Darcy wonders what it must be like, to feel so ill-at-ease with one’s surroundings that they can never just _rest._ Can never just put their guard down. It must be so very _tiring_.

Not that she’s much better, really.

Jumpy temperaments or not, the three of them manage to get to the baths without incident and Darcy sighs happily at the low-set brick building at the end of the street. The squat-looking building isn’t an original- it was built right around the start of New Triskelion, when it became clear that water was going to be a scarce commodity, but people weren’t willing to sacrifice their love of bathing. They’d made a compromise instead; several public baths, filled from the untainted reservoirs of the aquifer below them, and heated by the sun.  The whole system was a little more complicated than that of course, but it had the ever-elusive Engineer’s stamp of approval, and the baths hadn’t broken down in the whole seven years they’ve been around. A feat of Post-Turning engineering.

There aren’t many people around; most people prefer to turn up in the late afternoon, or evening, when the worst or the day’s heat has passed, but they still see a few early birds lounging beneath the arched awning of the bathhouse, letting the heat of the day dry them rather than the threadbare towels wrapped around their bodies. Their gaze follows Darcy and the boys as they step out of the sun, footsteps a faint tap of sound on the concrete floor. The place is tranquil at this time of day- serene and quiet and so very different from its usual energy, when families and gossiping friends fill the establishment.

They pause outside the main entrance; the co-ed baths are reserved for families, and Darcy’s not quite prepared to spend her energy bathing in the buff with them in one of the private baths. She hands Evangeline four nickel coins; they make a loud _ting_ as they hit his metal palm. Darcy doesn’t miss the faint flinch he makes at the sound.

“The men’s baths are through there,” she murmurs, and points to the clearly labelled sign above the wooden door. “You pay inside; one coin for the baths, and another for the soap and towels, but you’ll need to use the safety razors I gave you if you want to shave,” she grimaces at them sympathetically. “Though I think you’ll need to use the soap as a lather, if you do. Unless they’ve got stuff inside,” she shrugs at them helplessly, though they don’t seem to care. Darcy huffs a sigh and grins at them. “Right then; off you go; got get yourselves clean. The water’s good and you can soak in the pools for as long as you want.”

They nod, and Darcy watches them disappear into their section, a wave of warm, moist air escaping before the door closes behind them, and she turns, twirling her own coin between her fingers and she passes through the door to the woman’s bathing rooms.

It’s uncomfortably humid inside and Darcy can already feel the sweat forming on her forehead and upperlip. She grimaces, dropping her coins into the courtesy collection tin and helping herself to a towel, wash towel and a bar of soap that smells strongly of lavender. The small ‘foyer’ leads to a long, narrow changing room, the walls lined with hooks to hang bathing bags and clothes from. The right wall has two doors; one opening to the large soaking room, the other to the washing room.

Darcy undresses quickly and methodically, hanging her clothes on the hook beside her bag, boots sitting neatly together below them, and wraps herself in the towel. She takes the door at the furthermost end of the changing room, snagging a shallow metal pail from the stack beside the doorway. The washing room is filled with a number of wide, wooden benches- slatted and separated down the middle so several people can use them at once- and in the centre of the room are three circular tables, each sporting several taps to fill her pail with. A few of the women look up at her entrance, but most of the people who bathe at this time of day are the anti-social type, and Darcy fills her pail with water unharassed.

She hums as she turns the tap on, running her hand through the stream of water to appreciate the miracle of running, _hot_ water before turning away to hang her towel on another of the many hooks that surround the room. Once upon a time, the nudity may have bothered her, but it’s been too long for her to ever care about anything more than getting _clean_. After spending weeks on the road with little more than the odd sponge bath when the smell got too much, there’s not much Darcy _wouldn’t_ do to feel clean again.

By the time she returns, the pail is full and she turns the tap off, dumping the bar of soap into the tub and carefully picking it up and taking it over to one of the benches. Only a little water sloshes over the edge when she sets it down, and she sets to work, methodically removing any and all traces of the Wastes from her skin with a wash cloth that she suspects may have once belonged to a larger towel.

It doesn’t take long for the water to muddy, and Darcy tips it out onto the floor, watching, pensive, as the dirtied water flows slowly down the angle of the floor towards the grate down the centre of the room. She gets up and starts again, filling the pail and taking it back to scrub furiously at her skin as though the force alone can wash away her time alone in the Wastes. By the time she finishes, Darcy’s emptied and filled her basin four or five times, and the skin of her hands is squeaky- almost raw- from handling so much soap. The soap itself is half-used up, and Darcy thinks she has a few lavender flowers in her hair; escapees from the bar that had transferred when she’d poured the soapy water straight over her head. But she is clean at least, and happier for it.

Satisfied with her job, Darcy retrieves her towel from the wall, wrapping it around herself again and depositing what’s left of her soap and wash cloth in two small chutes, to be collected by the bathhouse attendees. Absently, she runs her fingers through her tangled hair as she strolls towards the other end of the room, where the soaking baths lie. This has always been her favourite part of the process; getting clean is one thing, but the sheer luxury of being surrounded in so much _water_ is a heady thing. If she could, Darcy’s sure she would stay in the baths forever.

She hums happily inside, once again hanging up her towel and stoically ignores the curious gazes of the other women enjoying the baths as she enters the water. The heat of it is breath-taking and she bites her lip viciously as she steps down, the shock of it almost too much to bear. Darcy closes her eyes and submerges herself fully, and basks in the feel of her hair across the bared skin of her back when she re-emerges. She swims lazily to the other side of the pool, melting into the smooth inbuilt bench around the pool’s edge and closes her eyes. For the first time in _weeks,_ she lets herself relax.

Three months.

It’s been three months since she was last in New Triskelion.

She never meant to leave it so long, of course. But the last time she ventured out of the Wastes was a month and a half ago, when she’d gone down Evanstown to sell off a prime selection of agricultural books direct to the buyers, and she’s not been in the mood to stop off at New Triskelion on the way back up. Next thing she knew, it’d been a month, then a month and a half and though the boys had kind of forced her hand, she figures she’d been due to turn up anyway.

But, she reflects- the warmth of the bath seeping deep into her bones and relaxing muscles that haven’t had a day off for a month and a half- maybe she shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Her friends aren’t getting any younger- and even if Darcy isn’t necessarily getting any _older_ , it’d pay to turn up more often. Spend time with them. The baths are good too; she has to hand it to the Engineer; he knows how to make shit work.

Darcy lets herself drift for a time, revelling the warm, clean water surrounding her, mind blank. The hushed talk of the other women fades to an indistinct hum of sound, just enough to remind her that she’s no longer alone. That she can rest for a time and recuperate. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before the finally emerges from the pool, but when she does, her body is warm and pliant, her hands and feet wrinkled and pale. She stumbles back into the changing room and dries herself slowly. She takes the time to reflect on Roger and Evangeline as she does so.

The thought of taking on two apprentices scares her far more than anything has in a long time. To be depended upon and trusted like this… it’s a heavy burden, and considering who they are is absolutely not helpful at all. There are so many things that can go wrong; they could regress and hurt themselves or others, or Darcy could end up an awful trainer and get them hurt or _worse_. The possibilities are terrifying, because there’s no doubt in her mind that she’ll end up attached. It’s why she’s refused to take on another partner for so long; to have what she had with Jane and Thor… and to _lose_ it all over again… it would destroy her.

 Thor would never approve of how she’s been. An immortal like him- human lives must have felt like the blink of an eye. And yet he had never been afraid to make that connection with people all over again. He’s probably call her cowardly. But Jane would have understood her. Jane was always practical like that, and she knew Darcy better than anyone. She’d always known why Darcy kept herself guarded from loss. Why she never let her relationship with Natasha extend further than friends with benefits.

She’ll do it, though; if not for herself, then for Roger and Evangeline. It’s been long enough for her to mourn; time to let herself make friends again. Seven years, and yet it feels like decades.

Long enough, she thinks. More than long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does cornbread in milk go soggy? I don't actually know, being Australian and all, but I assume it does...  
> Don't you just hate it when you spend hours of your time researching semi-obscure things to mention it for a whole three sentences?


	13. Warren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are rainbows and markets, in no particular order.

Roger and Evangeline are waiting for her outside, sitting on a pair of vacated lounge chairs. With both their beards shaved, and their skin and hair noticeably cleaner, Darcy almost walks straight past them; it’s only their oddly stiff posture on the _lounge_ chairs that has her looking twice, and when she does, Darcy damn near trips over herself.

Because good _God_ but those are some good-looking men.

She blinks at them in a muted state of shock; the curve of Evangeline’s jaw is startingly boyish and the set of his mouth could almost be considered _pouty_. Roger isn’t much better- with his serious mouth and sculpted jawline. _Fuck_ , but the two of them are enough to give her heart palpitations; they are unfairly beautiful, and Darcy spends a brief moment wondering what would happen to her if she ever caught them _smiling._

It is entirely possible she may just spontaneously combust on the spot.

“Well,” she says intelligently when she recovers from her shock. “You two clean up nicely.”

They stand- almost in unison- from the chairs and Darcy is reminded all over again how goddamn tall they both are. “You took your time,” Roger grumbles and the two of them following after Darcy when she turns about face and starts walking back to Barclays. She glares at him over her shoulder.

“Do you know how _good_ these baths are? Because they’re amazing; and trust me, I’m not just saying that because I spend most of my time out in the Wastes with _sponge baths_.”

Roger hums to himself, sounding unimpressed. “Sure.”

“Alright, wise guy,” she growls. “How long were you two waiting for me?”

“Ages,” he drawls. Darcy rolls her eyes at him and keeps on walking.

To the right of her, Darcy catches Evangeline rubbing his hand across his jaw, as though surprised by the sudden lack of beard. “You look good,” she tells him, and Evangeline’s hand drops from his face. He glances at her sheepishly.

“It’s weird,” he confesses. Darcy smiles at him wryly.

“I’d imagine it must be. Bet the two of you have been sporting the face fuzz for a while.”

“… Probably.”

Darcy decides not to touch that non-committal answer with a ten foot pole, and loops her arm around the crook of his metal elbow without really thinking about it. Evangeline doesn’t jump, but she suspects it’s a close thing, and she counts her lucky stars when he doesn’t snap her arm in retaliation. It occurs to her- not for the first time- that she probably _shouldn’t_ treat these men like any other friends, but something makes her hesitant to do so. She kind of wishes she’d paid more attention in that Psych 101 class she did back in college now, though Darcy’s not entirely sure how that could help anyway.

“Sorry,” she says, swallowing back her unsurety. Evangeline stares at her hand, as though the idea of anyone touching his prosthetic is a foreign concept to him. She moves to remove it, but his flesh hand jumps out, grabbing her hand before she can and returns it back to his elbow.

“It’s okay,” he replies softly. His hand rests over hers for a moment, as though trying to reinforce the okay-ness, before it retreats- thumb brushing over her knuckles in a way that makes her stomach flutter. “I don’t mind.”

She swallows again, mouth dry. “Okay,” she breathes. She returns her gaze back to the road ahead, and tries very hard not to think of the warm, dry rasp of his hand over hers.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, taking the boys along to the New Triskelion markets is possibly a mistake.

It’s Darcy’s fault of course. The markets are _crowded_ , filled with stalls, people and animals, the sound rarely sinks below that of a dull roar. They go through what used to be the central business strip of the town, filled with stalls that sell everything from trinkets and books (in one of the old stores, hidden away from the worst of the hustle and bustle), to scavenged computer parts and electronics.

It’s nothing like the suffocating press of people Darcy remember of the Christmas markets back in her hometown of Boston, but it’s enough that Roger and Evangeline are constantly on edge. Evangeline at least hides his unease better- his movements slow and loose limbed- and Darcy remembers the notes about him being preferred for covert missions, where subtlety was more necessary than brute force. In fact, the only reason Darcy knows he’s anxious is the curl of his metal fist, held close against his body, and the infrequent twitch of his head at the odd sounds that are little too loud and harsh for comfort.

Which, admittedly, is often. Darcy feels bad about taking them along now, but she reasons that it’s something they’ll have to do at some point, if they’re going to be hunters, and the purpose of their apprenticeship _is_ to shadow her.

She doesn’t linger at the stalls as she’d like to; she loves seeing the tradesman stalls, the curios and scavenged finds of hunter’s stalls, and the proliferation of green from the vegetable stalls down the foods aisle. But today all she really wants to do is set her gear up for sale and get some food for an early lunch. Darcy drags them through the crowds as quickly as she dares, and counts it a success when neither pull out any of their various concealed weapons once. She sighs in relief when she spies the familiar faded green paint job of the sign hanging from her preferred place of sale.

“Through here,” she tells her shadows, and weaves through the stalls set up in from of the shop, avoiding the calls inviting her attention and patronage. She knows exactly where she wants to go, leading them into a small showroom that Darcy suspects was once a shoe shop. She smiles as the door tinkles upon their entrance, and squares her shoulders for battle.

Warren Thistlewaite is a reedy black man with a grumpy disposition, masked by a toothy grin that has a tendency to make people forget how much of a ruthless bastard he can be when it comes to haggling a price. Not that said smile is often present when Darcy comes around- probably because she is just as shrewd when it comes to haggling. He must be in his mid-fifties by now, but it’s difficult to tell, his at face that odd stage between middle and old age. He’s a ruthless businessman, and runs his traders business with an iron fist. Darcy likes him, perhaps solely because she enjoys the challenge.  

He looks up at the sound of the bell ringing as they enter and grimaces at the sight of her. He doesn’t smile much around her- probably because she makes it her business to know how much her finds are worth.

“Wanderer,” he rumbles, and Darcy smiles at his baleful stare. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Back to rob me of my hard-earned money?”

Darcy laughs, unabashed. “Sure am,” she drawls, and pulls a dog-eared notebook out the back pocket of her jeans. She walks over to the counter and slaps it down with zeal. Warren sighs heavily. “My finds, ready for sale.”

His gaze lingers on her two companions that loom behind her, before picking up the notebook with a long-fingered hand. He opens to her bookmarked page, shrewd gaze passing over her carefully documented lists. He hums and Darcy resists the urge to cross her scarred arms- intimidation tactics have never worked on Warren. Most techniques have never worked on Warren.

“Is this all you have?” he asks, dissatisfaction marring his voice. “You’ve been out there three months.”

Darcy grins wickedly at him. “Have you been keeping tabs on me, Warren? I’m touched.”

He glowers at her. “Watch that head of yours Lewis, any bigger and it might pop… Marie wondered where you’d gone.”

Her smile turns a little more genuine. “How are her and the kids?”

“They’re okay,” his lips twist into a disgruntled grimace. “Mason wants to join the Institute.”

Darcy gives him a look of sympathy. Whilst there’s a certain prestige to be found in hunting, most families understand the inherent dangers in the practice and are reluctant to send their children away for training. “You gonna let him?”

Warren shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Can’t really stop him. He’s of age.” He glances back at her companions, and like that it’s back to business. “You got more to sell?”

Darcy shakes her head. “It’s all I’m selling.”

“Oh,” he gripes. “You doing the charitable thing and donating the rest of it again?” She nods. “That’s nice of you,” he lies, the tone of his voice telling her exactly what he thinks of that venture. Darcy smiles at him sweetly, cackling inside.

Warren sighs heavily, putting the list back down on the counter. Darcy watches him expectantly. “I’ll give you two-fifty for it.”

Darcy leans forwards, holding herself up by her arms against the counter. In the heat of the day, she’s left her button-down shirt open, and the singlet beneath it is low cut, pressing some of her best assets to those who might go looking. Of course, it’s never worked yet, but Darcy likes to try it anyway. “Warren,” she purrs. “I _know_ you can do better than that.”

“And I know you can haggle better than that, Wanderer,” he growls, scowling down at her.

She smirks. “Four hundred.”

Warren cackles, head tilting back in a condescending laugh. “Fuck off. I’d be lucky to resell this shit for that much.”

“Oh come on. You’re more resourceful than that.”

He glowers at her. “Two-eighty.”

“Mantle clocks and pocket watches are a booming business, you’d pass them on no worries.”

“Yeah, three months ago they were.”

She raises an unimpressed brow at him. “Dude, just ‘cause I’ve been outta New Triskelion three months don’t mean I’ve been outta the loop. If anything they’re getting _more_ popular, so don’t got trying to sell me that. I’ve got five of each; not to mention the frying pans- they’re always in demand, and these suckers are high-quality. Brand new, with _Teflon_. Don’t go telling me you can’t get a pretty penny for each one of them.”

Warren pokes his cheek with his tongue, obviously thinking on it. “Teflon, you said?”

Darcy wiggles her eyebrows comically. “Non-stick, heavy bottomed and _beautiful_. You’d get eighty for each, _easy_.”

“Three hundred.”

“Three-eighty. I’ll even throw in another, just for you.”

His eyebrows rise at the sweetener. Bribery, Darcy has found, is an almost infallible bargaining chip when it comes to Warren. “Marie’s birthday _is_ coming up…”

She grins, sensing her in. “And now you’ve got a fantastic gift for her! For free- but _only_ , for three-eighty.”

He sighs again. “Three-fifty. No more- it’s my final offer.”

Darcy grins in satisfaction and sticks out her hand before he can rescind the offer. “You got yourself a deal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, and takes her hand, grasp firm and dry. “You’re lucky I trust you, Wanderer. Thieven’ me outta house and home…”

She laughs. “I think not, Warren. When do you want me to come over with the goods?”

“Tomorrow,” he grouses. “Gimme time to sort out the credits and see if I can find some buyers.”

Darcy hums. “Sounds great.” She beckons him with her hand and he leans over the counter and Darcy presses a kiss to his grizzled cheek. “It’s good to see you, Warren.”

Warren scowls at her good-naturedly. “You too, Lewis. Now get out- you boys are giving me indigestion.”

Darcy glances around and just manages to catch Roger and Evangeline schooling their features into entirely suspicious looks of innocence and she huffs a laugh at the sight. “Who, these guys?” she teases. “They’re harmless. Mostly.”

“Mhm. The key word there being mostly, I think.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m sure,” he drawls, and Darcy retrieves her notebook. “Those goods better be good.”

She rolls her eyes at him and turns away. “It’s like you don’t trust me at all.”

“Leave, Wanderer.”

Darcy huffs in exasperation but does so, giving him one last wave as her boys follow, and the door _dings_ closed behind Evangeline.

 

* * *

 

“Why do they call you Wanderer?” Roger asks sometime later, as Darcy leads them out of the markets. She carries a bag full of carefully wrapped foods that she’d rather they eat somewhere secluded- for their collective sanity. Darcy walks quickly, and the soldiers follow her with ease, their long legs chewing up the distance with little effort. She glances up at him; or rather, squints, the afternoon sun shining brightly behind him, illuminating his hair in a halo of gold.

“What?”

Roger runs his tongue across the inside of his lip. He carries the other bag of food. “Warren and Prue… they call you Wanderer.”

Darcy’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh- that.” She shrugs, a little embarrassed. It’s been going on for so long she’s half forgotten to car. “Back before the Turning, there was this pop culture trope… this idea that people with jobs like mine were for the loner types. The Tragic Wanderer, if you will. But- uh- the reality is that most hunters are actually pretty social. It takes a certain person to trawl the wastes, sure, but the number of people who go out alone are miniscule… for most it’s veritable suicide.”

Roger frowns thoughtfully, studying her carefully. “But you were- when you found us, you said-”

“You were ‘better suited for the job alone than three-quarters of rookies’,” Evangeline finishes, and Darcy coughs in embarrassment. Her fingers tighten around the handle of the bag.

“Look,” she says, feeling defensive all over again. “I’ve always been on the more potent scale when it comes to magics- about the only thing I _was_ good at, to be honest. There were plenty of times with Jane and Thor when I took out a Shade easy as pie without their help. And after… well. I just- I couldn’t stand the idea of going out there with anyone else.” She kicks at a tuft of grass growing out of the cracks in the bitumen as a trio of kids on bikes zoom past them.

“I think…” she starts, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. Evangeline watches her carefully and she avoids his gaze. “I think at the start, I kind of _wanted_ the Wastes to swallow me up. I kept going out there- against everyone’s better judgment- _hoping_ it’d be my last… but it never was. And after a while, I guess I just got used to it- the peace and solitude… after a time it stopped hurting and began to feel like home. But that kind of behaviour… it garners a certain kind of reputation.”

Darcy bites her lip, holding back a rueful smile. “Most hunters end up making a home for themselves in a settlement- start a family, surround themselves with support groups and I… didn’t. Some smart-alec- Clint, probably- coined the term and one day I came back to New Triskelion to find everyone calling me ‘Wanderer’, like it was a title and it stuck. It’s been helpful, over the years.”

“How?”

Darcy shrugs again. HQ is visible at the end of the street and she hurries their pace. “Well it comes with certain connotations, doesn’t it? The Tragic Wanderer- pop culture’s cultivated this image of some grizzled, whiskey drinking badass- and don’t get me wrong, I am _all_ of those things.” As desired, they boys snort in amusement and she flashes Roger a grin. “But it’s not _who_ I am, really. Still… I’m not blind to the fact that there are stories about me that get passed through hunting circles. So _maybe_ I try to cultivate the reputation these days, because it’s come in hand in more than a few prickly situations… so long as they believe me. Cause-uh-” she motions at herself in emphasis, “-I don’t exactly _look_ like a badass.”

The corners of Roger’s lips twitch in amusement. “It’s true,” he muses. “You _are_ tiny.”

Darcy gapes at him, but Evangeline snorts. “And harmless-looking.”

She makes a soft sound of outrage, though inwardly she crows in delight at their teasing. “Rude,” she tells the pair of them, and though they don’t laugh, the small upwards curves of their lips are as good as. She ribs Roger in the ribs and he looks down at her, mildly affronted. “I know you’re just jealous,” she teases him, unrepentant. “But don’t worry; chances are, if you stick around with me you’ll get something similar- _especially_ if you keep on glaring at people like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger says, and bless him, but Darcy isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth or not.

She leads them around back of HQ, and at first she thinks the place is empty but for one or two cars, until she realises that Clint is napping in the back tray of one of the trucks. She snorts and makes her way over to it. Taps lightly on one of his boots and the man startles awake.

“Whu-”

“Heya lazy bones. Shouldn’t you be doing something?”

“Lewis,” the archer groans, slumping back onto the dusty metal. “I _was_ doing something, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Hate to say it, but sleeping doesn’t count as ‘doing something’.”

“You’re not my supervisor.”

She laughs, bright and genuine as he sits up again, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He waves at Roger and Evangeline and they nod back at him. “And thank God for that. It’s a wonder Phil has any hair left.”

Clint smirks, looking smug. “It’s all the kinky sex we have.”

Darcy pulls a face and whacks his foot- still in easy reach. “Don’t be crude.”

Clint winks at her and hops down from the tray. “Still not my supervisor.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, looping her arm into the crook of Roger’s elbow. The man startles slightly but doesn’t shake her off and Darcy counts it as a win. She leads them inside. Clint tags along, and Darcy doesn’t bother asking him if he’s got anything better to do; it’s just nice to see him after so long. HQ is more occupied than last time, but the hunters they do see mostly steer clear of them. Darcy’s not sure if it’s because they recognise her, or the sight of Roger and Evangeline are intimidating enough to keep them away, but whatever it is she’s glad. She’s been around enough people today.

She takes them up to the top floor, and Clint must already know what she’s doing, because he slips in front of them to unlock the door for them.

“We caught some of the rookies up there,” he explains. “Phil was worried they might slip and kill themselves. Or worse- damage one of the solar panels.”

She snorts. “And we couldn’t have that.”

“Nope,” the archer replies cheerfully. “Those things are expensive as fuck.”

“Ha.” Darcy shoulders her bags, offering what she can’t carry to Clint, who slips out the window before her. “Follow my lead,” she tells her companions and they nod, watching as she climbs out the window and edges over to the ladder that leads up to the roof. “One at a time,” she orders, glancing back at Evangeline, his head peeking out of the window. He nods and Darcy climbs up and over, walking carefully over the ceramic tiles to join Clint above the solar panels. Roger and Evangeline quickly follow and before long, Darcy is passing around their food- still warm, thank the Lord. She even offers some to Clint when he sends her a pitiful look.

They eat quickly, and sit on the roof in a peaceful silence when they’re finished, the late afternoon sun drawing closer to the horizon behind them. It lights the town in gold and a serenity lies over the place that sets Darcy’s crowded mind at ease. She sighs and watches the clouds gathering on the horizon with a lazy interest. Even the boys are calm; Evangeline lies against the hot roof tiles and stares up at the sky whilst Roger mirrors her, sitting with his arms on his knees, staring out across the Wastes.

“We might get rain,” Clint remarks, staring out at the clouds. Darcy hums, watching them herself. There’s something… _off_ about them. She’d mistake them for dust clouds, were they not the wrong colour- a dull grey lined in silver by the sun.

“Is it me,” she says slowly, feeling somewhat one edge by their appearance. They’re growing at an alarming pace, and though storms out here are rare, they usually appear fully formed. “Or is that cloud growing _way_ too fast?”

Roger frowns, straightening up from his slouch and Darcy’s eyes widen when the clouds ripple with colour- once. Twice. Three times. Her breath freezes in her chest as a pillar of light erupts from it not a moment later. It shimmers with colour, and pulses once before disappearing as rainbows ripples through the clouds, like dropping a pebble into water.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, mind filled by the memory of a similar rainbow-coloured light. She remembers vividly Jane wrenching the wheel, pulling them straight into a light storm that Darcy had wanted to avoid, and the resulting _thump_ as they hit Thor. “Holy mother of fuck.”

The sound reaches them then- strange, like a distorted clap of thunder heard from far away- and Darcy feels as though she could step straight off the building and _fly_.

  And then as quickly as the light appeared, it disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles wickedly*  
> #sorrynotsorry


	14. Asgardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy makes some new friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man.   
> This chapter has been sitting in my phone for literally MONTHS. For. Ever. Words cannot describe how awesome it feels to finally reach a part in your story that you've imagined for this long, I stg.

“What. The. Fuck,” Clint says with feeling, staring agape at the quickly dispersing clouds.

Darcy scrambles to her feet. “We need to get to wherever that light landed, _right fucking now_ ,” she breathes, and tugs out the compass that hangs from her neck. With shaking fingers, she aligns the compass and moves the housing as Roger and Evangeline watch her in confusion.

“What?” Clint squawks, standing too. Darcy breathes a sigh of relief when she gets the direction- _67ᵒ_ \- and moves quickly over to the ladder. “For real?” Clint cries after her, Roger and Evangeline already hot on her tail. “We have no idea what that is, Darce! You can’t just go out there-”

“You don’t understand, Clint!” she snarls, pausing long enough at the top of the ladder to glare at him. “The last time I saw lights like that? Thor appeared!”

Her soldiers glance at her in surprise and Clint gawps at her in shock. Darcy starts her descent. “Wait- _what?_ ” she hears him cry out. “ _Thor_? Darcy, what the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s not from Earth! Clint, you know this!”

“Well yeah, I guess, but I just figured he was a bit loony, to be honest.”

She laughs bitterly, and continues climbing down. “Oh _please_ , you’re talking about the guy who knew an almost inexhaustible amount of land magics. You think he got that from just reading books?”

She climbs through the window and waits with impatience for the rest of them to join her, foot tapping on the classroom floor as the men slip through the window one by one.

“It’s not like there was any way he could substantiate his claim,” Clint says defensively as soon as he comes through, continuing the conversation. She scoffs, and starts off at a run, dashing through the corridors and down the stairs without care for the odd looks she and her entourage garner.

“Darcy- _Darcy!_ ” Clint cries out, chasing after her. “For fuck’s sake woman, would you wait a hot minute?”

Darcy waits long enough for the archer to catch up with her. “I _need_ to get there- we need to find them.”

Clint huffs in frustration. “You don’t know anything about this, Darcy! There’s no knowing if people came through it, or if it’s a fucking weapon or what! _Think_ for a moment about it, would you?”

Irritation flushes through her, hot and potent. “I _am_ thinking about it! People, Clint. _People_ came through- I _know_ it. And right now I’m thinking about how we’re an hour and a half from sundown and every Shade in a hundred mile radius is going to be zeroing in on their location!”

He scowls at her. “Okay, so say that- _thing_ \- really did send down people. Who’s to say they’re not hostile?”

“And who’s to say they’re _not_?” she argues right back, turning around again and marching out of HQ. Clint is hot on her heels. “And they just landed ten miles north-east of the only settlement around! Not to mention that fucking light storm probably kicked up enough magic to draw in _God knows_ how many Shades. If we don’t find them, then the Shades will, and then they’re as good as dead!”

“And if _we_ go out there _we_ could be as good as dead!”

“Well I’m going out there, Clint. You’re welcome to stay here- and least I’ve got the hammer.”

“Is that hammer going to save you from a swarm of Shades, Darce?”

“I’m going out there,” she growls, unbending. “And it’s still daylight for an hour or so. We can at least get there before sundown.”

“We’re coming with you,” Roger pipes up, and Darcy sends him a startled glance.

“You’ve got no training. It’s _suicide_ \- hiding in the truck won’t protect you from a swarm.”

“We’re coming.”

Clint moans in frustration, throwing up his hands in defeat. “For fuck’s- it’s like talking to a brick wall! Would you at least let me grab a few hunters first?”

Darcy pauses, thinking about it for only a moment before nodding. “Fine. But they either take their own vehicle or they sit in the tray. You have ten minutes, and then we’re leaving.”

Clint nods grimly and runs off. She can hear him calling out for people as she turns around, setting into a sprint as soon as she’s out of HQ. It’s almost a relief to hear the faithful sounds of Roger and Evangeline’s boots right behind her, and for once Darcy doesn’t give a shit about passing for baseline human. She just wants to get the truck back to HQ as quickly as possible. She huffs in relief when she catches sight of Barclay’s and her truck, pulling the key out of her satchel.

Roger and Evangeline stop behind her, and she resists the urge to glare at them- they’re not even breathing heavily, but Darcy is slightly winded from the run. She unlocks the truck and tugs the door open with more force than is truly necessary. “Get in,” she orders as she slips inside and they comply without complaint. She tears out of the parking lot, and drives back to HQ with an urgency she only just manages to curb, and but she at least has the presence of mind to turn the truck off once she’s there- urgency or not, gas is a precious resource.

She leans across the truck, opening the glove box in front of Roger and pulls out her collection of maps- a well-worn ring binder with maps in every plastic sleeve, hopping out of the car to rest it on the bonnet. Darcy flicks feverishly through the pages, and makes a soft sound of relief when she finds the one she wants, fishing it out of the sleeve and spreading it out across the dusty metal.

“What are you doing?” Evangeline asks. He hovers behind her to peer curiously over her shoulder. Darcy tugs the compass over her head and works quickly, aligning the compass with the map and finding 67 _ᵒ,_ marking out the direction she wants with a pencil she has to fetch from her glovebox.

“I’m picking out the most likely landing spot; it’ll make it easier to find them.” She circles the area where she thinks they may have landed; on the map it’s all former farmland and Darcy is relieved to see that there are several roads around that area.

Clint joins them; Phil, Natasha and five other hunters tagging along behind them. One of them has a white strip of fabric tied around their neck- an apprentice. The others are a collection of men and women she knows only vaguely- though one or three of them obviously recognise _her_ , if the widened eyes and raised brows are anything to go by.

She eyes Clint’s group, assessing them. All are tattooed- even the apprentice- and all carry weapons of some kind or another; axes and swords are the preferred weapons of choice out here, but the apprentice carries a mace, and Natasha and Clint have their bō staffs. “We’ll have to take three vehicles,” she notes, slinging the compass back over her neck. “I’ve got a general idea of where they’ll be, but I’ll need someone to direct me while I drive; someone who’s familiar with the place.”

There’s a moment of silence amongst the hunters, before a woman steps forwards, evidently steeling herself for the task. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, short and stocky with the look of a hunter only a few years into service in her ghost eyes. “I can navigate,” she says bravely “I used to work on clean up out there. The terrain’s familiar.” With her cropped hair and diminutive stature, she doesn’t look like much, but the gleaming silver axe strapped to her back tells a different story. “I’m Monnie.”

“Darcy,” she replies, and takes the woman’s hand when she offers it. She glances at the rest of them; eleven in all. “I can fit another person in the cabin and there’s enough space in the tray for a couple more if you’re game. We need to go now if we want to find them before nightfall.”

“Find _who?_ ” the apprentice blurts out before turning a bright shade of red.

The Hispanic man beside him rolls his eyes. “With all due respect, Miss Wanderer,” he says, elbowing his apprentice in the side, “ _why_ are we going out there?” He nods to Clint, to his left, “Barton isn’t exactly a wealth of information.”

“Did you see the lightning storm?” They all nod. “It’s a transport system; something just fell to Earth, and they used enough energy to light up their position for miles around. We don’t get there in time and whoever ended up out there is dead.”

“Transport system?” One of the men- Davies, she thinks his name is- asks doubtfully. “What makes you think it was a transport system?”

She squares her shoulders, the look on her face just daring anyone to challenge her here. “Because I’ve seen it before. When Thor Odinson came to Earth.”

There’s a collective breath of surprise from the group. Everyone who’s anyone knows who Thor was; the inevitable result of a charismatic man with strength on his side and an unparalleled grasp of Earth magics. It warms Darcy’s heart a little to know that his name still holds power. She runs her gaze over the group, feeling stronger than she’d have imagined with Roger and Evangeline flanking either side. “We good?” everyone nods- some with clear hesitation- and Darcy smiles grimly, turning about face to climb into her truck. “Good. Then get in the trucks. Monnie, you’ve got shot-gun.”

The hunters climb into their respective trucks- the apprentice gets stuck squashed between Roger and Evangeline, and she watches through her rear-vision mirror as Delgado- his mentor- and Davies hauls themselves into the tray. As soon as she’s sure they’re okay, she’s off, Clint’s truck tailing them as she drives as fast as is allowed (read: not very) through New Triskelion. They’re held up only momentarily at the Beacons, and Darcy watches the sun, off to her left, warily. It sits low on the horizon; they probably only have another hour or so of sunlight left, then the night is fair game. It’s not a position she likes to be in, but she’s glad she’s got a pack of quality hunters with her.

They drive in a tense silence, interrupted only be the occasional input of directions from Monnie. Darcy doesn’t make an attempt to break it; she focuses instead on getting there as quickly as possible. All of the roads close to New Triskelion have been cleared over the years- which makes her job easier, but the further out they get, the less kept the roads become.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” she says as they draw closer to where she’d estimated the Bifrost hit. “Any sight of life- smoke or _whatever_ \- and you tell me.” In the back seats, Roger and Evangeline nod and stare out their windows.

It’s one of the hunters outside the truck that spots them; Delgado raps hard on the glass of the back window, pointing enthusiastically to the east and Darcy slows the truck to a crawl, looking out across the empty plains. There’s a large cloud of dust half a mile out and she smiles at the sight of it grimly.

“It could just be a dust devil,” Monnie notes at the sight. Darcy shakes her head.

“It’s not.”

The younger woman nods at her certainty, glancing between the map and the road. “Then take the road we just passed.” Darcy nods and turns the truck around. Clint sends her the finger as she passes them and she returns it with enthusiasm.

“Be ready,” she says as they turn onto the uneven road. “They might be hostile.”

The apprentice- McMann- stares at her, appalled. “You say that _now?_ ” he asks in disbelief. Darcy shoots him an unrepentant grin.

“Chin up, rookie,” she winks at him and he swallows, “they’ll probably be okay.”

“’Probably’, she says,” he grumbles and Darcy turns back around, focusing on the road.

They pass the empty remains of several farm houses, the cars parked outside them rust red and covered in greying weeds. The dust cloud is slowly dissipating, and when she pulls up outside the house closest to it, Darcy thinks she can just make out the blurred shapes of several somethings, moving through the dust. She honks the horn; the volume of it in the tense silence makes all of them jump and Darcy winces apologetically.

She gets out of the truck, dashing around to the tray to reach over the side and pluck Mjolnir off the dusty metal, only realising the significance of the moment when the thrill of power ripples up her arm. She swallows, remembering her promise, and tightens her grip on the weapon. Delgado watches her pick it up with wary eyes that narrow when she picks it up with ease and rests it on her shoulder. “That’s an interesting weapon you got there,” he remarks carefully.

Darcy smirks at him, hoping she’s not showing how unnerved she is. “You tried to pick it up, didn’t you?”

He shrugs, looking mildly embarrassed. “We may have.”

“Heavier than it looks, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and hops out of the truck, standing beside McCann. “Must be.”

She bites her lip to conceal a wider smile, and peers out across the Shallows. The figures in the dust cloud are moving towards them at a rapid pace, and the strange rhythm of their movement makes Darcy think they’re on horses; as they draw closer, she becomes certain.

She hear Clint’s truck turn off behind her, and the open and slam of doors. Clint and Phil join her as the Natasha pulls up, but Darcy is transfixed by the sight of the newcomers. There’s something off about them- they seem to glitter in the light, the sun now dangerously close to the horizon behind their search party.

_They’re wearing armour_ , she realises when they’re close enough. Five figures in all, on horses and heavily armoured.

“What the fuck?” Clint breathes and Darcy can’t help but agree.

The sight is picturesque- awe-inspiring- and Darcy’s not sure if it’s because they might be actual _aliens_ , or if they really are just _that_ awe-inspiring.

She jogs forwards, vaulting over what’s left of a fence, and Roger and Evangeline follow, as expected. “Stay here,” she orders the rest of the group, but Phil is already rolling his eyes and coming after her, still remarkably spry for his age.

“So are we talking Asgardians, here?” he asks, joining her again. Darcy shrugs.

“I hope so.”

The figures slow to a stop as they draw in close, some thirty yards away, and with the setting sun shining straight at them, they look statuesque and regal in their strange medieval armour and frankly _massive_ horses. Darcy feels almost inadequate in her shabby clothes and dirty boots as she watches them.

The sight of them invokes an emotion similar to the sight of rain, so rare these days this far north.

“Hark!” one of the figures calls- huge and broad, with hair that looks like it’s on fire in the saturated light. “Who goes there?”

Darcy bites her lip; the old-fashioned speech patterns are so _familiar_. “Well they’re definitely Asgardians,” she remarks softly to Phil, who huffs a laugh. He glances at her, raising a brow and motions to the Asgardians with the smallest of movements.

“Do you want to do the honours?”

She winks at him and steps forwards, hoping the older man can’t see her nerves, and takes comfort in the weight of Mjolnir resting on her shoulder. “Greetings, Asgardians,” she calls out, and all five straighten in their saddles. Her lips twitch. “We are hunters of the Wastes, from the settlement of New Triskelion. We witnessed your arrival, and came to escort you back to town.”

One of the men climbs off his horse. He’s tall- probably taller than Roger, by her estimate- and though he looks regal and refined in his black and green leathers, there’s something dangerous about his sharp eyes. An edge to them that makes Darcy wary.

“I am Loki, son of Odin, King of Asgard.”

She blanches. “ _Loki_?”  Darcy finds herself saying in shock. “Thor’s brother?”

Loki’s eyes narrow and _yep_ \- there’s that look of danger again. “You know of Thor? We come seeking him; he has retrieved Mjolnir and, by our father’s will, his banish is lifted.”

Darcy gapes at him. “You _what?_ ”

Irritation flickers across his face, and he opens his mouth to continue, but one of his riders cuts him off. “My King,” they say- a woman. “Her weapon.”

His gaze travels to the handle of Mjolnir, the heft of it sitting behind her shoulder, and Darcy watches with trepidation as the emotions on his face range from shock to horror before resting on disgust. He takes a threatening step forwards, knives materialising in his hands. “You _dare_ touch Mjolnir?” he hisses, and Darcy yelps, stumbling back from him in surprise as he suddenly appears in front of her, knife pressing against her throat. “You _dare_ steal from Thor, former heir to the throne of Asgard?”

Darcy stares at Loki, spitting mad, the sharp press of pain on the delicate skin of her throat a warning. The look in his eyes is deathly serious.

Everything moves very quickly then. Darcy hears several wordless shouts, the sound of more than one gun cocking as someone drags her forcibly away from the Asgardian, a metal fist simultaneously flashing before her and socking Loki straight in the jaw.

“Wait!” she shouts desperately, watching with despair from behind Roger and Evangeline as Loki stumbles back, hand flying to his mouth.

“ _Don’t touch her!_ ” Roger thunders, face contorted into a terrifying snarl, pistol aimed straight at him. Darcy’s never seen him like this before, and for the first time she feels a flash of fear at the sight.

Loki ignores him, staring at Evangeline. The look on his face is furious. “Boy,” he snarls, “I am the _King of Asgard_!” Behind him, his companions have dismounted, drawing their weapons and Darcy growls in frustration, already over her shock.

“Roger,” she says sharply. The man doesn’t so much as move, but Evangeline’s shoulder twitches. “For fuckssake- _Steve!_ ” She mosies in between the men and their testosterone-fuelled standoff, gripping his wrist tightly. “You’re Thor’s brother, right?” she asks Loki again, though she already knows the answer.

Loki’s upper lip curls. “Who are you to presume to speak to me, thief?”

Darcy levels him with an unimpressed stare and staunchly ignores her companions’ insulted growls. “Darcy Lewis. Thor was my _friend_. He called me his shield sister.”

“Liar.” Loki’s eyes flash dangerously, but Darcy has faced down death and won. He doesn’t scare her. Evangeline snarls something that sounds decidedly unpleasant at the Asgardian king in Russian, and one of Loki’s riders- the blonde one- coughs suspiciously, as though trying to conceal a laugh.

  If looks could kill, Darcy is certain she and her boys would have keeled over by now. “Can it, Evangeline,” she growls, glaring at him as she tugs on Roger’s arm again; his gun is still pointed at Loki. “There’s more than enough testosterone to go around.”

Loki sneers at her. “Don’t toy with me, thief. Where is he? Where is Thor?”

Darcy swallows, glancing away as she steels herself for the inevitable explosion. This is not going how she’d pictured it. When she looks at Loki again, he looks set to attack her and she squares her shoulders.

“Thor is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmkay so I really hate giving you another cliffie, but I have a chapter size that I like to stick with, and longer chapters mean you have to wait longer between updates because I am a sloooooww writer (unlike several absolutely fab writers who have the ability to pump fic out at a frankly astonishing and mind-boggling rate and I love them for it). So sorry about that, *shrugs* but hopefully the content makes up for it.   
> (and OMG YOU GUYS I DON'T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I LOVE WRITING LOKI I AM KEEN AS A BEAN TO WRITE MORE)


	15. Code Cyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait on this one! I had so many fics to work on these last few weeks, but I'd been working diligently on this puppy to get it out for you.

“Dead?” Loki asks, disbelief marring his voice. He looks shocked- they all do. Darcy doesn’t blame them, but she can’t help but feel exasperated at the continual signs of doubt. “You lie, girl.”

“Watch your mouth,” Evangeline snaps and Darcy fights a sigh, squeezing his shoulder. He settles, but just barely.

“I’m telling you the truth,” she insists. Loki’s companions join them and Darcy has a vague recollection of Thor’s stories of Sif and the Warriors Three. She wonders if these are those people. Loki opens his mouth- likely to say something cutting, but the woman rests a hand on his arm and Darcy is suddenly acutely aware of her own position. She removes her hand from Evangeline, trying to make is subtle.

“Speak, mortal,” the woman orders, though the tone of her voice is soft and there’s a sadness in her eyes that Darcy empathises with.

“Thor’s been dead seven years,” Darcy explains slowly, and she tries very hard to keep her voice from shaking, though she’s kind of confused. “I’d have thought you’d know… don’t you have that guy- Heimer… Heldal-”

“Heimdall?” the woman offers, a strange look on her face and the name is familiar, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Darcy snaps her fingers, shifting slightly.

“That’s the guy! Heimdall. Thor said he was the Watcher, or something like that. Said he guarded the realms; the all-seeing-eye- used to get a kick out of that one.” Sif’s lips twitch, but her face remains solemn, shaken by the news and Darcy finds herself overcome with verbal vomit. “And look, I’m not gonna lie; if that’s the case and Thor wasn’t just pulling my leg- ‘cause for real that news fucked me up for like a good week- then I hate to break it to you, but I think you need a replacement because _holy hell_ ,” she motions around them with her free hand, and Loki and the woman’s sharp eyes scan the arid landscape, “has he _royally_ fucked up.”

Loki curls his lip at her, seemingly recovered from his shock. “You’d do best to keep your mouth _shut_ on matters you know nothing about,” he growls, eyes flashing dangerously, but Darcy is unperturbed. She glances pointedly behind her to the small army of hunters gathered at the fence line.

“Alright,” she says flatly, shrugging and, turning as if to leave. “Maybe you guys- who _obviously_ know _everything_ \- can just chill out here the night. Since you _obviously_ know all about Shades and how to kill them.” She nods her head back at Roger and Evangeline and ignores the stoically resigned look on Phil’s face. He looks like he wants to say something, but Darcy stays him with a look. “C’mon boys; we’ll just come back for what’s left of them in the morning.”

There is a moment’s pause as she starts to walk away.

“Wait,” Maybe-Sif says, and Darcy sends Phil a smug look. She turns, eyebrows raised. Who’d have thought Asgardians could be as easy to manipulate as humans. Maybe-Sif appears apologetic, and a little exasperated. “My Lady Lewis, our apologies, please. News of Thor’s death has shocked us.”

Darcy smiles at her in sympathy. “You’re Sif, aren’t you?” She nods and Darcy huffs a laugh. “You’re more diplomatic than Thor gave you credit for.” Sif bows her head, and a pained look crosses Loki’s face. “You on the other hand, _your majesty_. Thor used to _boast_ about that silver tongue of yours.”

Loki’s eyes flash dangerously and something in Darcy’s gut flutters at the thrill of it. His gaze lingers on Mjolnir, sitting on the ground beside her now.

“You wound me,” he murmurs, and Darcy smiles at him sweetly.

“My apologies, your grace.”

A vein in his temple tics. Darcy fights the urge to raise her eyebrows in challenge at him.

Sif bites her lip, and one of their companions- the blonde one again- fails to hold back a laugh. Loki shoots him an icy stare and the man bows his head in repentance. “She speaks the truth, my King,” he says lowly, and Darcy is struck by the lack of subservience for their supposed king. There is, she realises, a certain level of camaraderie between the five; the kind of familiarity that can only be borne of shared battles. “Your silver tongue has failed you.”

Loki clenches his jaw and looks away. She feels sorry for him- it must be hard, to come down seeking your brother only to discover that you’re seven years too late. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, sincerity in her voice.

 “How?” Sif asks in a half-hearted attempt to cut through the escalating tensions. “Did he die well?”

Darcy sobers at Sif’s question and she sighs heavily. “A Shade caught us unawares. It caught him out- slashed him open.” She swallows thickly, stoically ignoring the stricken looks on the Asgardians. “We were out alone; there was nothing I could do. I’m sorry.”

Sif bows her head and behind her Darcy watches the other Asgardians do the same. She lets them have this brief moment of grief, turning back to look at her group of hunters. Dressed in a hodge-podge of worn jeans, dusty boots and sun bleached jackets and plaid shirts, they are a far cry from the gleaming armour and clean leathers of the Asgardians.

“Thank you, for being with him in his final moments,” Loki manages eventually, expression closing off. Sif glances at him worriedly, but doesn’t comment and Darcy breathes an internal sigh of relief.

“Right then,” she says and claps her hands. She eyes their horses critically. “How fast exactly are those horses of yours?”

“Fast enough.”

“Think they can keep up with the trucks?”

Loki sneers at her, evidently recovered. “Undoubtedly.”

Darcy just smiles at him blandly and reminds herself that he’s only just heard news of his brother’s death. “Then you better got on those babies and run like hell, because we’ve got twenty minutes tops before sun down.” She turns and points at the parked trucks. “Follow the trucks, your majesty.”

She motions for Roger and Evangeline to follow her and walks away, back to the rest of the group as Phil falls into step with her. “I think your diplomatic skills could probably use some work,” he tells her softly and Darcy laughs aloud, sharp and humourless.

“You let me do it,” she drawls, and jumps over the fence. “Shoulda known I wasn’t gonna bow and scrape to them.” She pauses for a moment, and something dark crosses her face. “Especially not _him_ ,” she snarls, voice low. “You heard what he called himself- ‘King of Asgard’. And he just _left_ Thor here? At any point he could have-” She shakes her head and the dark look morphs into a broad grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And besides; it worked, didn’t it?”

“It was a gamble.”

“And it paid off. I won’t let that man walk all over us.”

They reach the rest of the group before he has a chance to say more.

“So,” says Monnie, glancing between Darcy and the Asgardians, mounting their horses behind them, “what’s happening?”

“We’re escorting the Asgardians back to New Triskelion,” Phil says, taking back the reigns. Darcy lets him takeover as the sound of hoofbeats draws close, and the Asgardians pull up beside them, huge horses snorting and shifting uneasily, as though able to sense the growing unease in the party. Darcy doesn’t like the way she has to crick her neck to look up at them and she rolls her eyes and opens the driver’s door.

“Get in the trucks you lot; sundown is coming soon,” she orders as the Asgardian’s wait, and the hunters around her burst into motion, hopping into their vehicles. Darcy rolls down her window and leans out, tapping the outside of her door to grab Loki’s attention. “Last chance to get a ride in the trucks.”

Loki huffs a derisive laugh. “Asgard does not breed slow steeds, little girl.”

Darcy raises her eyebrows. She can feel the weight of her soldier’s glares behind her, levelled straight at the king. That attitude of his is not going to get him far back in New Triskelion. Most survivors these days show little regard for demands of respect where none is due- a direct result of the shit show what was left of the government made immediately after the Turning; wasting and hoarding precious resources for their own personal gain; floundering at the important decisions and flaunting their distorted sense of entitlement in other’s misery.

“If you says so,” she returns eventually, equally as derisive. She ignores the flash of irritation that crosses his face. She’s going to have a lot of fun with this man, she thinks.

She starts up the truck and Loki’s horse doesn’t so much as flinch as it roars into life. She kicks it into gear as soon as the last hunter is in, almost giddy with relief at having found the Asgardians in time- regardless of their King’s behaviour- and all she can hope for now is returning before night falls and Shades start moving in earnest. Her anxiety returns full force and Darcy is almost surprised by its appearance; hunting has been such a stable part of her life and for so long that it feels almost like a relief to feel nervous about something. She feels like a rookie again, back in the early days when no one really knew what they were doing.

Much to her vindictive displeasure, the horses _do_ manage to keep up with them, and Darcy and her armada of hunters all but fly down the aged and decrepit roads, chasing the sun all the way back to New Triskelion. The tension in her chest only seems to ease when they pass over the ward lines of the town, the Beacons already turning on as daylight rapidly fades. She slows to a stop as they pull up to the gates and the Asgardians reign their horses in beside her truck. She probably shouldn’t be so pleased to see how exerted the poor animals look, sweat glistening on their flanks, and Darcy wonders how much longer they could have truly kept up.

“Stay in here,” she orders her passengers, and gets out of the truck. Phil and Clint are already outside, striding purposefully towards the gates where a guard Darcy doesn’t recognise is scrambling to attention, eyes wide at the sight of the Shield Director and their contingent.

“Sir?” the guard asks, her dark eyes flitting over their group with concern. They’re not the same guard that let them leave.

“Code Cyan,” Phil says shortly and she blanches.

“I- _what?_ ”

“You heard me, Browning. We’ve got a Code Cyan on our hands; how many hunters are still out on patrol?”

Browning bites her lip and glances behind her, thinking on it. “Around six, sir. Team Delta and Beta got back twenty minutes ago, but Alpha, Gamma and Epsilon are still out there. We couldn’t get a hold of Alpha at all; we’re still trying, but they were scheduled to inspect the dead zone tonight.”

Phil clenches his jaw, and squares his shoulders. “Keep trying- five minute intervals. In the meantime, start the sirens; I want everyone within the inner wards in the next hour. Stay in your own wards unless absolutely necessary.”

The guard nods sharply and turns to go back to their rudimentary cabin. “Yes sir,” Darcy is struck by how very real this all feels. New Triskelion hasn’t had a Code Cyan for almost five years; not since the Shallows began receding, and the patrolling hunters usually took care of any small Shades that turned up before they could become an actual risk for the settlement.

“And Browning?” the guard pauses, boots shifting on the dry ground as they look back at her friend. “How many hunters do we have out there?”

“One hundred and fifty-six, that we know of sir.”

“Fuck.” Darcy’s breathes, eyes widening. That’s a lot of hunters; she hopes to God they’re out of range. Phil breathes out slowly, but Clint appears visibly ill- there’s no telling how many hunters will get stuck out in the Wastes with an impending swarm on their hands, and without a sufficient warning, she can only imagine what could happen to them if they’re close enough.

“And in residence?”

“One hundred and seven, sir, on the payroll, plus another eleven who aren’t.”

If Phil is impressed by Browning’s flawless recall of hunter numbers, he doesn’t show it, but Darcy certainly is. The guard pokes at her cheek with her tongue, and stands a little straighter. Her gaze flickers behind them to the Asgardians, still perched on top of their horses. They must make an odd scene for Beacon’s Gate. “If I may sir… what’s happening?”

Phil motions for Clint and Darcy to return to their trucks, and she follows his directions, hearing him tell her something about a swarm as she jogs back to her truck.

“Is the Director calling what I’m thinking he’s calling?” Monnie asks as soon as she hops inside. Darcy nods tightly.

“Code Cyan.”

Monnie and the apprentice suck in a sharp breath and Darcy kicks her truck into gear and drives on through just as the sirens begin to wail. She grimaces, the haunting sound almost painfully loud this close to the gates.

“What are they doing?” Evangeline asks, voice uncharacteristically loud to counteract the screeching sirens. “What’s happening?”

“They’re calling everyone into the inner wards,” Darcy explains. “The Asgardians kicked up a whole lotta power; Shades are gonna start swarming the area close to us, so New Triskelion’s answer to the threat is to hunker down and hope for the best.”

“I thought you said the settlement’s not been touched by Shades for nine years,” Steve says, and Darcy catches him frowning at her from her rearview mirror.

“They haven’t,” she murmurs, and can’t shake the unsettling feeling taking hold in her chest as she watches all the lights in the homes on New Triskelion’s outer rings flicker off. People have already started spilling onto the main street, looking unsure but calm- she’s sure many just think it’s a drill. “Code Cyan is a precautionary measure. The outer wards are effective as hell, but the inner wards are the tightest and surest way to hide ourselves from any passing Shade- theoretically.”

“Where are they going to stay?” Evangeline asks, voice soft. Darcy sighs as they get caught behind a slow-moving family.

“Town hall, the schools, the baths… there’s a few places around, prepared for this kind of event… but I doubt many people are going to sleep much tonight.”

“Why not?”

Darcy sends McCann- still wedged between her soldiers- a look of disbelief. “I don’t know,” she drawls. “Maybe because there’s likely to be a swarm of Shades in our near vicinity?” she turns back to the road. “I don’t know how old you were when the Turning happened, but there are still plenty of people who remember what happened to Odessa, and they weren’t the only places to be swallowed by Shades.”

The car falls silent, and Darcy clicks her lights insistently at a group of teens strolling down the middle of the road as though the siren isn’t still wailing. They just out of her way and she waves at them as they pass, ruthlessly tamping down on her anxiety. They’re just kids.

They pull into HQ and they haul themselves out, the Asgardians sliding from their horses with a grace that belies their towering stature. Phil stalks up the ramp and Darcy has to jog lightly to catch up with him.

“So?” she asks quietly. Phil spares her a short glance. “Do we have a game plan?”

“Beyond protocol? Not much,” he admits. His answer is discouraging. “Not right now, anyway- Atticus!” A middle aged man peers out of the room he’d just dodged into to escape the crowd of hunters, and blinks at Phil owlishly.

“Sir?”

“Round up all the hunters in residence; tell them we’re assembling in the Auditorium.”

The man’s mouth falls open. “What?”

“ _All the hunters,_ Atticus. I don’t care how you do it, but we need every hunter in New Triskelion here in HQ in the next half hour.”

“All of them?”

Irritation flickers across Phil’s face. “You heard me. Any hunter worth their salt will be coming up here anyway, but I want all of them accounted for.”

The surprise bleeds from Atticus’ face and he nods, suddenly resolute. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”

Phil nods sharply and starts moving again. “Nine years, Darcy,” he says lowly. “New Triskelion’s been untouched for nine years. And now I have to contemplate the possibility of being overrun by Shades. Not to mention all the hunters out there with no backup.”

“It’ll be okay, Phil-”

“Will it though?” Phil turns to look at her. His face is pale and drawn, the worry clear on his face. “There’s not even a guarantee that the inner wards will be strong enough; what if they sense us anyway? What if-” he breaks off. Clenches his jaw in frustration. “We’re flying blind here. We don’t know how big they’ll be- how many. We don’t even know if any Shades will have sensed the Bifrost- all of this could be for nothing. But if they just stumble over us- we’re screwed. Three and a half thousand people are relying on us to keep them safe.”

“And we will. We’ve still got plenty of hunters to help us, and Phil, you should have seen me with Mjolnir! That thing tore through a Shade like it was paper. If it can do it do one, it can do it to hundreds. Thor was right; the hammer is a game changer. For all of us.”

Phil’s face turns pensive. “Those Asgardians… do you think they’ll have similar weapons?”

Darcy glances behind them, where the other hunters trail behind. The Asgardians tower above most of them, tall and statuesque and completely out of place in the poorly lit corridors of HQ. Clint and Natasha speak quietly with Sif; she has a good idea what they might be talking about.

“They might,” she muses. “Thor said Loki was a skilled magic user, at any rate. Who knows about the rest of them, but according to Thor’s stories, they’re all proficient warriors.” She frowns, trying to remember something he’d said about them, but the memory evades her grasp, “…I think.”

“Hmm,” Phil hums, and walks through the door at the end of corridor into the Auditorium. It’s nothing special (it couldn’t even pass as an auditorium, but Shield’s always liked to use grandiose terms); just a large, open courtyard with a raised dais, nestled between buildings to provide shade and better acoustics for any gathering held there (or at least, Darcy suspects that was the hope). There are already about twenty or so hunters there- no doubt alerted by the sirens that they’ll be needed- and Darcy watches as Phil’s worried expression sloughs off him, taking back on his leader persona easily.

Their group empties out into the Auditorium, and Darcy joins Natasha and Clint with Sif and the other Asgardians, lingering by the foot of the dias as Phil walks up the stairs slowly. Someone has had the forethought to leave a lantern on the stage and Phil picks it up, lifting it onto a hook on one of the beams.

“What’s going on, Coulson?” a voice calls out from the crowd of gathered hunters. Darcy is certain they’re all going to grow sick of that phrase by night’s end. The crowd fills with the hum of sound as others chime in, and Darcy shares a look with Clint. Phil holds up his hands, and slowly, the hunters fall silent, but the unease in the air is palpable.

The sirens have stopped, night well and truly fallen, Darcy realises, and she grows aware of how quiet the Auditorium’s become, everyone waiting for the Director to speak.

“We have a Code Cyan,” he starts, and the Auditorium erupts into sound, hunters shooting questions at him left right and centre. Darcy rolls her eyes; if there’s one thing that can be said about hunters, it’s that they’re hardly the most disciplined bunch. Much to Phil’s chagrin.

A piercing whistle echoes through the space, bouncing off the walls and Darcy curses, covering her ears on reflex. Clint’s joined his partner on the stage, and it’s only as the crowd goes quiet again that he takes his fingers from his mouth. “Shut the hell up and let him talk,” he growls. Phil spares a look up at the heavens.

“Thank-you, Barton,” he says, and turns back to the hunters, all-business once again. Even as he speaks, more hunters begin filtering into the Auditorium, many more carrying their own light sources. The flickering light of the lantern on the dias casts Phil and Clint’s faces in shadows and Phil looks even grimmer than before. “As some of you may be aware, late this afternoon we witnessed a great pillar of light North-East of New Triskelion. Shield- the old Shield- has come across this before. The energy required for such an… event is off the charts.”

A murmur of disquiet ripples across the crowd. She doesn’t miss the numerous glances pointed their way, with their strange companions. Phil carries on and Darcy half feels bad for the hunters who’ll turn up late. “I’ve called a Code Cyan on the likelihood that Shades will swarm the area where the light storm originated. Should any Shades stray near New Triskelion, the risk of one catching onto us was too high. Code Cyan will stay in effect until at least sunrise.”

He pauses. Looks around the crowd carefully, expression guarded. “As far as I can see, we have two paths of action. One; we elect to stay within the wards. With any luck no Shades will notice our presence and nothing will happen. If we’re unlucky, we fight, and we keep this town safe.” Phil glances over at Darcy and their group. She smiles, certain she knows what he’s about to propose.

 “Our second option is to fight. If we just sit and wait for the night to end, the solution is only a short-term fix. The morning won’t rid us of those Shades- and there’s likely to be less, sure, but they’ll be bigger and stronger, feeding off each other. But if we go out tonight, in large enough numbers then we have the very real possibility of destroying every single one that comes within twenty miles of our town.”

“That’s suicide!” someone calls and others echo their sentiment. The Asgardians share an unsettled glance between themselves, and Darcy wonders how foreign this must be for them. They likely came down to Earth expecting things to be a mess, but at least normal. But Shades are a new invention; the cursed children of the Turning. She wonders if they fear they’ve condemned a town to death by their actions.

“How do we even know they’ll turn up?” another person shouts and Darcy resists the urge to hunt them through the crowd and throttle them. They’re _hunters_ , for fucks sake; they should know how these things work.

_Plan for the worst._

Phil presses his lips together unhappily. “We don’t- not for sure-” the gathered hunters burst into more discontent murmurs and shouts, and if she could she’d kick all their asses. There’s no time to waste on-

And then they hear it.

A distant wail- high-pitched and seething and so familiar the sound is etched into her soul. The crowd falls deathly silent as it peters off, sending shivers down her spine. Another cry sounds, quieter but no less bloodcurdling. Darcy glances around; the Asgardians look unnerved- even Loki seems ill at ease by the sound. On the dias, Clint smiles down at them all grimly.

“Does that your question for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect actual answers from the Asgardians in the next chapter! <3


	16. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I finally give ya'll some answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so YES it's been a while, but hey, you're getting a 7K+ update, which is far more than I usually do, so there's that :P

The plan, once the hunters settle and get their heads in the game, goes like this: all the hunters in New Triskelion will remain within the inner walls, with regular patrols of the perimeter to watch for any Shades that stray too close to town. Then, come the early hours of the morning, two thirds of them will leave to deal with the swarm.

The move isn’t as risky as some hunters make it out to be. Though the chances are that the Shades left around will be bigger and stronger and harder to fight, there _will_ be less of them, so the remaining Shades will only be able to focus on a few hunters at a time, leaving the rest of them to work at weakening and destroying them. Their timing is based on the hopes that the rising sun will weaken them further, making the remainders easy pickings for hunters to destroy.

Darcy is _mostly_ confident of their success; though most hunters she knows have never fought anything stronger than a level four before, she thinks all the drills TINT has made its hunters go through will pay off. Phil and Natasha are nothing if not pragmatic, and they _have_ fought a level six Shade before, back when Jane and Thor were still kicking around. The fight had been brutal; the thing had come ambling out of the ruins of Odessa, gorged on the souls of the thousands of displaced refugees who’d been living there. Since then, Phil’s always made sure to show others how to fight against a Shade of such size, despite their relatively low likelihood (although Darcy’s always wondered about that- how long it would take for the Shades of the Abyss to deplete their food sources and start wandering out further. Sooner or later, it’s going to happen; the Abyss can’t sustain them forever).

Almost all of the hunters volunteer to fight- as do, surprisingly, the Asgardians- and Phil has the luxury of choosing whoever he wanters to join the party. All in all, if the ledgers are correct, he have one hundred and twenty-nine hunters able to fight- one hundred and thirty-three if they count the Asgardians- more than enough (touch wood) to deal with a swarm, especially if they have the morning light on their side. The gathering splits up once he’s finished; Phil takes the hunters who’ll stay behind, to go over defending the town if needed, whilst Natasha takes the stage with Clint, to talk to the rest of them. She stares out at the group, impassive.

There are eighty or so of them- all of varying ages and experience- and the amphitheatre is deathly silent. The old phrase ‘could hear a pin drop’ comes to mind. Darcy is unsurprised; Natasha’s managed to maintain an air of aloofness and intimidation far better than her (in hindsight, that may have been why they’d been together for so long), and the hunters know an expert when they see one.

“This is how it’s going to go down,” Natasha tells them, eyes roving over the group. Her gaze lingers on Darcy, and she offers her a smile. The corners of Natasha’s lips quick in response- as good as a grin in Natasha’s case, at least in public. “We’ll split into four groups, twenty heads a piece-” something flickers across her face as she looks at the Asgardians- “more or less. Lewis, Munroe, Delgado and myself- you’re team leaders. Each of us have experience fighting level five and six Shades. Each group will split into five groups, four each, so if you’ve got a partner you work best with, I suggest you stick with them. We want everyone to be in the best form possible.

“Lewis- you’ve got the Asgardians. The rest of you, you’ll have five minutes to pick a leader, then we’ll reconvene here in four hours.” Natasha points to each corner of the amphitheatre, assigning one to each of them and Darcy stays where she is as Natasha continues talking about drills and game plans. It’s not long before she finishes and jumps off the stage, cutting through the gathering of hunters like a shark through water, and the crowd bursts back into sound again. The Asgardians edge closer to her and the boys, and Darcy gives them a benign smile.

“It would seem we are with you, Lady Darcy,” Sif says, her returning smile strained, but warm. Darcy pokes at the inside of her cheek with her tongue as she watches the other hunters eye her and her collection of oddities warily.

“Guess so. Of course, that all depend on those weapons of yours. I’m assuming they’ve got some kind of latent magic, right? Like Mjolnir does?”

Loki’s eyes narrow at the impertinent question, but the blonde man- the one who’d ribbed Loki before- smiles at her charmingly. “You speak truthfully, My Lady, though I admit our blades are paltry imitations in comparison to the might of Mjolnir.”

Darcy could _swear_ she hears Loki grumble beneath his breath a resentful ‘speak for yourself’, but she ignores him. She needs to know if they can fight or not. “But they _are_ magical, right? You guys can wield magic with them? Because I’m even letting you out of the inner wards if it turns out you can’t. Plain weapons mean shit all out there.”

Loki stiffens at her implications, drawing himself to his full height and Darcy is reminded of a snake, rearing its head. “You would question our skills?” he asks coldly, and she’s half-surprised he doesn’t hiss. “Asgard’s legacy is thousands of year’s old, mortal. Any weapons of our make are _leagues_ beyond anything you could possibly hope to create.”

Darcy just _barely_ manages to restrain herself from rolling her eyes violently and Sif closes her eyes for a brief moment as though preventing herself from hitting her king over the back of his head. “That’s got nothing to do with it, _Your Highness_ ,” she snarks back, unable to stop herself, “but magic’s the only thing that’s effective on a Shade, and it’s just a shot in the dark here, but something tells me that none of you are sporting marks like these-” she tugs back the sleeves of her shirt, exposing the long-healed scars on her arms and holds them up for their inspection. The Asgardians draw a collective breathe of surprise.

“What-” Sif murmurs, hand raising to touch the scarified runes before evidently thinking better of it. Her hand falls back, lifeless. “How did you come to bear the marks of galdr[1]?”

Darcy raises a puzzled brow. “Um- Thor?” she says, as though the answer is self-explanatory. Perhaps it is, because she easily sees the flash of understanding that crosses Loki’s face.

“The oaf paid more attentions to mother’s lessons than I’d thought,” he murmurs, gaze tracing the marks on her arms in fascination. “Storing runes?”

Darcy nods, and turns over her arms to expose the inside of her forearms. “And ones to channel magic too. All hunters have them. They let us infuse our weapons and glitter sticks with Earth magics- humans never ended up going down the magitech route, so Thor’s input was invaluable. Wielding magic was kind of a lost art before the Turning.”

Loki is still staring at her scars, the expression on his face inexplicably softening. “Vǫlva,” he says quietly. He looks up at her in something close to wonder, as though seeing her for the first time. “He made you into Vǫlur[2].” He glances at the other hunters around them and snorts. “Or some variation thereof.”

Darcy raises a brow, bemused. She’d never heard Thor use a name like that before- not that she can recall, at any rate. “If you say so,” she replies, and tugs her sleeves back down to her wrists. Naming what they are was never important to any of them. “Point is, _we_ wield magic because our weapons can’t. Not on their own. Can your weapons do what ours can’t?”

“Undoubtedly,” Loki replies, and he looks around the amphitheatre with new eyes. Darcy wonders how long the change in his mood will last. “And even if they couldn’t, doubtless we could match you in magic and power.”

Darcy purses her lips. The casual dismissal of their skills and power rankles; their peace and safety has been hard won, with the sweat, blood and lives of many a hunter. “Okay, then you’re in. I’ll explain Shades after I’ve spoken to these guys.” She turns to the group of hunters that have wandered over to their corner. Monnie is amongst them, and the man standing beside her is too similar in appearance to be anything but her brother, eyes just as pale and washed out as Monnie’s. Darcy recognises only a couple of the others, but she doesn’t know their names.

She smiles. “You’re with me?” The hunters nod and Darcy straightens a little beneath their searching gaze. “Have any of you fought anything higher than a class four?”

Four hunters, clustered together with the look of a party deeply familiar with each other puts up their hands, but the rest merely shift uncomfortably. “In 2017,” one of the group of four says quietly. “We came across a level five that had wandered out of the Abyss. Took a bit, but we got rid of it. No casualties, which was nice.”

Darcy’s lips quirk, satisfied with their answer. “Nice work,” she tells them, and the speaker- a man in his mid-thirties- smiles back. Darcy returns her attention back to the rest of the group. “The rest of you familiar with the protocols for large Shades?”

All twenty hunters nod and Darcy breathes a sigh of relief. A lot of them look a bit on the young and fresh side, spoilt by the relative peace and tranquillity of the Shallows in recent years. Several, she knows, work in the scavenger department of TINT, where the outings are usually marked by minimal Shade contact, out in the Shallows. “Good,” she says, and she swallows back the nerves threatening to make her fumble. It’s been a long time since Darcy’s been anything even remotely like a leader, and never for a group as large as this. She tries to get a look at Natasha, in the corner beside hers, but there are too many people in the way. Her fingers twitch uneasily as she grimaces at the noise in the amphitheatre. She needs some quiet to hear herself think.

“Right,” she says decisively, glancing back at the building behind her. “I think we need to find a room- it’s too loud out here.” Darcy motions to the door that leads back into the main building, “There’s a bunch of old classroom on the third floor- we’ll grab one of them- talk about the plan and get to know each other.” She fights a grimace at the ‘get to know each other’ part, feeling like a kid in a new class, struggling to learn everyone’s names. She’s all but guaranteed to forget most of them.

The group nods, and Darcy lets them leave first, hanging back from them as she beckons to the Asgardians, wanting them to follow her. Sif falls in step with her easily, and Darcy bites her lip to hide her smile as the woman elbows her way between Roger and Evangeline (Evangeline is supremely disgruntled by the move). She has a feeling Sif and Natasha would get on like a house on fire.

They walk quietly through the building, and Darcy suspects Sif has something she wants to ask. She says nothing, confident the Asgardian will speak sooner or later, and sighs at little as the group slows at the stairs, glaring at the back of Monnie’s head impatiently.

“Your people,” Sif says eventually, gazing curiously at the axe strapped to Monnie’s back. The silver and copper runes inlaid on its surface are just barely visible. “I thought they did not know how to craft magical weapons.”

Darcy smiles grimly. Monnie’s axe gleams brightly, with few nicks or scratches evident in the polished surface.  It’s obviously new, and was no doubt hideously expensive- even the prototypes of magic-infused weapons are at the moment, with plenty of wealthy hunters clamouring for the privilege of using one. “We do,” she murmurs, “but it’s kind of a new field for us and they’re not perfect. We’re working on it[3].”

“When this is over, I will speak with Loki, see if we can spare a weapon’s smith to work in Midgard’s service,” Sif says, voice pitched low as though telling her a secret. Darcy looks at her in surprise.

“I- you’d do that?”

“Why would we not?” Sif asks, looking somewhat affronted at the disbelief in her tone. “Asgard owes you much.”

“It’s just- well.”

“What?”

Darcy bites her lip and glances away, swallowing like she can somehow contain the decade’s worth of grief and resentment. “Well, after years of nothing, it just kind of feels like a bit hard to swallow.”

Guilt flickers across the woman’s face, but her gaze holds true. “We would have come sooner were we able, Lady Darcy. I promise you.”

Darcy huffs a mirthless, bitter laugh. “Ten years. We’ve been living like this for _ten years_. And not once- _not once_ \- did you come down to look for him.”

Sif looks away again, down at the stairs like a guilty-child. “There were extenuating circumstances that prevented us-”

“Like what?” Darcy hisses, mindful of keeping her voice low. “Exile or not, he was your _Crown Prince_. And the world went to shit and you just left him to _rot_ down here.”

There is an old grief on Sif’s face when she looks back at Darcy, and she wonders when she forgot how long Thor said he’d known the woman. “If I could have, I would have searched for him- I would have helped Midgard- without a moment’s doubt,” she says quietly. Darcy understands the steel in her gaze, like she’s got something to prove, and she sighs.

“What happened to us?” she asks her, voice small, and the Asgardian doesn’t blanch at the question, but it’s a near thing. “Do you know? What made the world Turn bad?”

“Thanos,” Sif murmurs, and there’s an odd inflection to her tone as she speaks, like the name is taboo. A haunted look in her eyes that belies her confident grace. “The Mad Titan.”

Darcy blinks at her in confusion. “Who?”

Sif looks at Darcy in wonderment and Darcy raises a brow, bemused. Sif shakes her head. “Sorry,” she apologises. Darcy waves her off. “It simply feels as if it has been an age since I last spoke that name and no one knew what it meant.”

“Kinda got a good reason for that.”

“You do.” She sobers. “Thanos… tried to court Death.”

Darcy stumbles on the last step and Sif catches her elbow almost absentmindedly. “Court- I’m sorry, _what?_ Is this a joke?”

Sif shakes her head solemnly. “Nay. He fell in love with Mistress Death- an entity as old as the universe itself.”

Darcy stares at her with wide eyes, but it pains her to admit that this isn’t even the strangest thing she’s heard. “What the fuck.”

She watches amusement flicker and die on Sif’s face in the span of seconds. “He thought your realm- and many others- would be a fitting token of his affections to Death. His attacks were a surprise; an act of war that threw the universe into chaos. Asgard could do nothing but retaliate, but by then the damage was already done.”

Darcy stops just outside the stairwell, feeling very much like the ground has been pulled from beneath her. “So we were- we were just casualties? Some kind of fucked-up gift from an asshole who just wanted to get into some chick’s pants?”

Sif nods slowly and Darcy feels sick to her stomach. “In a round-about way, yes.”

“How many.”

“I’m sorry?”

“How many worlds? How many people did he slaughter?”

The haunted look returns to Sif’s gaze, and when Darcy glances at the rest of the Asgardians who have stopped behind them, she sees that they share similar expressions. Even Loki. “Trillions,” Loki says quietly. Darcy’s breath catches in her throat. “More than we could ever hope to count.”

She closes her eyes. “Fuck,” she breathes, the horror of the situation hitting her like a punch in the gut.

“Asgard waged war on him,” Loki carries on, and Darcy opens her eyes to study him as he speaks. She catches traces of some untold grief on his face. She wonders how many people each of them had lost. “We fought fiercely and lost many, but in the end, Asgard prevailed. Thanos was destroyed, but it was still too little, too late.”

“Why didn’t you go looking for him? Even after you got rid of Thanos?”

Loki seems to understand who she’s talking about and she watches him visibly tamp down on his indignation. “We could not see. What the Mad Titan did to Midgard- it rendered Heimdall blind. We saw nothing, and the Allfather-” he breaks off, clenching his jaw unhappily and Darcy makes a good guess as to what happened to Odin. “We didn’t know where Thor was sent- if he was even still alive- and even if we had, without Heimdall’s insight, searching for him would have been too large a burden on our resources. Asgard was thrown into battle from the moment Thanos’ plan came to be. We had neither the time nor means to spend countless months searching for one banished prince.”

“He was your brother!”

“And I was their _King_ ,” Loki hisses, leaning in close to her as his eyes flash dangerously. Darcy holds her ground. “Do not think for one _moment,_ mortal, that I would not have dropped _everything_ to search for him had I been able. Thanos’ actions were a declaration of _war_ \- your realm was not even the worst touched by him! Asgard was stretched too thin to justify the search for one man.”

 Darcy licks her lips. She is _furious:_ at Thanos, for attacking Earth, at Loki and his callous dismissal of his brother, at everything they’ve had to suffer through. Sif rests a placating hand on Darcy’s arm, her touch warm and solid and Darcy closes her eyes a moment, appreciating the quiet strength beneath her grip.

“We cannot unwind the past,” she tells Darcy softly. “All we can hope to do is live on. Flourish, and curse Thanos’ legacy.”

The corner of Darcy’s lips twitch; Sif’s words are hardly the most elegant of things, but she gets her point across easily enough. “No special device that could manage to fix things?”

Sif shakes her head; the smile that she returns is soft and sad, like it’s something they’ve already tried. “Even time-travel is beyond Asgard’s grasp.”

Darcy sighs. Straightens and searches for the familiar well of calm she uses out in the Deep. “We’ll talk about this later,” she tells the Asgardians, and turns back around to lead them into the classroom down the end of the hall. The group of hunters are already inside, most milling awkwardly together in corners of the room, leaning on desks like high school students. She smiles at them weakly, and doesn’t bother commenting on the delay.

Monnie, standing nervously at the door, wordlessly hands her a stick of chalk, and Darcy takes it with a tight smile.

“Right,” she says firmly, grabbing the group’s attention with little effort. “If you’d like to take a seat, I think it’s time we went through some strategies.”

 

* * *

 

They talk for a good hour and a half, going through the drills and tactics of fighting large Shades, and how the group will work best against any hypothetical scenarios. The discussions are mostly informal, filled with hunters providing their own two cents on what they’re best at and what positions they’re better suited for, but Darcy is grateful when they bow to her final judgements. The Asgardians prove themselves to be willing learners, and are happy to offer advice or opinions when asked (even Loki seems to be on his best behaviour, which surprises Darcy to no end). It’s clear, at least to Darcy, that though not out of their depth, they at least have the sense to know when it’s best to listen to those more familiar with the situation, and she thanks her stars that they don’t let their pride get in the way of doing what needs to be done.

With their battle plan sorted out, Darcy dismisses the group, but not before making sure they remember to get something to eat and are ready to meet back at HQ in two hours time. She sags into a chair as soon as they’re gone, breathing out slowly as she lets the tension that’s gathered between her shoulders ease away. Evangeline stands behind her and rests his flesh hand on her shoulder and she tilts her head back to smile at him tiredly.

“Things will… be okay,” he says haltingly, and squeezes her shoulder lightly. Darcy hums and presses her head against his forearm, taking the opportunity to close her eyes for a moment. She feels old and drawn thin, the anxiety in her gut refusing to dissipate.

“I hope so,” she sighs, and Evangeline removes his hand and joins Roger, leaning against the wall as he feigns a casual air. Her shoulder feels unnaturally cold without his touch and Darcy rolls her head to look at the Asgardians to distract herself. Loki is standing again, but Sif and the Warriors Three still sit behind the desks. The sight is so absurd that it takes every ounce of willpower to stop herself from laughing at them. Some of her amusement must leak through anyway, because Loki’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Does something amuse you?” he asks, ice creeping into his voice again. Darcy bites the inside of her cheek and shakes her head, standing up with a groan.

“It’s nothing,” she lies. “C’mon- let’s go back to Barclay’s. I’m hungry- I don’t know about you lot.”

Fandral- the blonde one- sends an amused look back at the larger of his friends. Volstagg scowls and throws his hands into the air. “I’m not _always_ hungry, you cad!”

Sif presses her lips together to hold back her smile and Fandral laughs, punching Volstagg in the arm but Volstagg grabs him and pulls him into a headlock. Hogun and Sif dodge out of the ensuing tussle and Darcy sighs heavily, crossing her arms, unimpressed (and maybe a little amused). Evidently immortality doesn’t fix one’s immaturity.

“Well I’m leaving,” she tells the _sane_ Asgardians, and Roger and Evangeline slouch off the wall in an uncanny show of synchronisation. “You can join us if you want something to eat.” She moves over to the door, pausing in the doorway to look at the wrestling idiots sternly. “ _Don’t_ break anything- desks like those are a pain in the ass to get a hold of.”

She walks out of the room and the Asgardians follow, Fandral and Volstagg still jostling each other like a pair of teenagers. Roger and Evangeline trail behind the rest of them, and Darcy tries hard not to think of why they might be uncomfortable with the Asgardians walking behind them. Sometimes it’s easier to just let things be.

“So,” she asks carefully as they walk out of HQ, “he’s gone, right?” Loki and Sif regard her carefully, as though expecting her to burst into tears or something equally ridiculous. “Thanos and everything- it’s over, yeah?”

“Thanos is dead,” Loki confirms, voice tight and quiet. He looks away, staring blankly at the buildings they pass; the streets aren’t empty by any means- not with Code Cyan in effect- and Loki weathers the curious gazes of onlookers with grace. It’s easy to imagine him King of Asgard.

“Good,” Darcy manages, and she swallows thickly. She thinks it best not to question further right now- it’s clear the topic is a sore spot for all of them, and now is maybe not the best of times to go poking at tender spots. She chooses instead to give them a short and rather improvised tour, pointing out landmarks and ‘highlights’ on the relatively short walk to Barclay’s.

Barclay’s is busy when they finally get there, and Darcy stares at the tables filled with people in resignation, sighing heavily. Her disappointment doesn’t last long; Prue- talking to a young family at a table close to the door- catches sight of her easily and strides over, looking somewhere between disgruntled and pleased.

“Darcy-girl, why did I know this whole mess was going to be your fault?”

Darcy squawks in outrage and glares at the old woman. “Wha- _none_ of this is my fault!”

“Well, technically, we only came down because of Mjolnir, which _you_ used,” Sif corrects her sheepishly. Darcy stares at her with betrayal in her eyes. Prue regards her new companions with a critical eye, dark gaze sweeping up and down their armoured forms.

“More strays?” she drawls, and Darcy crosses her arms in protest. “This is becoming a habit, kiddo.”

“It’s not like I’m _trying_ , Prue; they just keep turning up.”

The corners of Prue’s lips twitch and she nods back towards the kitchen. “I suppose ya’ll want something to eat.”

Darcy lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Eating would be nice.” Prue sighs, and Darcy gives her a winning smile. “Pretty please?”

Prue’s eyes narrow. “You’re gonna hafta eat outside.”

Darcy grins and hugs the older woman, arms wrapping around her waist tightly. “You’re the best!”

Prudence hugs her back tightly, laughing softly. “I know, I know,” she murmurs, and pats Darcy’s back lightly. “Heard you were leadin’ one of the groups tonight,” she murmurs, a question in her voice and Darcy nods. Prue pulls away, looking troubled. “That’s a heavy burden.”

“I can handle it.”

Prue’s gaze slips past her to rest on Roger and Evangeline. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I believe you.”

Darcy opens her mouth to say something more reassuring, but Prue shakes her head, the uneasy expression clearing. She huffs. “Head out back; there’s still a few tables free outside. I’ll send out some food and drink soon as we’re able.”

Darcy smiles in thanks and Prue wanders off, meandering between tables back to the kitchens and Darcy leads her group outside. It’s cool outside, the stars shining brightly in the clear night sky and she smiles at the sight, the tightness in her chest easing away minutely, despite the distant eerie howl that sounds as she steps outside.

She leads their group to an empty table alongside the building, the wavering light of gas lights illuminating the area and adding an atmosphere of warmth to the open area. Roger and Evangeline automatically take the long seat against the wall and Darcy makes no complaint, sitting easily beside Evangeline. Sif steals the space beside her and the Warriors Three and Loki take the other side, sitting at the table with the telling ease of people used to stools for seats.

Darcy smiles benignly at the men as they wait, an awkward silence settling over them. Loki’s gaze is openly assessing, flickering between her and her partners, but his companions seem more curious than anything (and perhaps a little hungry, too).

“Tell me, Miss Lewis,” Loki asks eventually, voice carefully level. “How was it that you came across Mjolnir?”

She stares at him evenly. The challenge in his eyes is clear, _daring_ Darcy to somehow slip up and prove his worst assumptions correct. “Roger spotted a warehouse with his elf eyes and we went to investigate,” she explains. Fandral tilts his head and stares at Roger in confusion.

“You have Elven blood?” he asks, sounding dubious. Roger returns the bewildered look and Darcy snorts.

“Not _literally_ ,” she corrects herself, grinning a little at the thought. “It’s an old Earth joke… in hindsight not funny unless you get the reference.”

“Ah,” Fandral says, and Darcy carries on with her story.

“We checked the place out; resources are hard to come by these days, and there’s no telling what kind of goodies you can find out there, so it’s not like it wasn’t worth my time. It was an old Shield facility and inside the main warehouse was this huge fu- uh- huge crater.” She pokes at the inside of her cheek at the slip of the tongue, but if anything the Asgardians look amused (except for Loki, but who even knows what’s going on in that guy’s head). “In the middle of the crater was the hammer, not a speck of dust on it. Evangeline touched it; Roger touched it… didn’t move. I tried it… and it moved.” She shrugs. “That’s it really- I could pick it up, so I kept it ‘cause it was weird and kinda cool and I thought maybe Phil would know what the deal was with it.”

She clenches her jaw. Phil _did_ know what the deal with the hammer was, and it wasn’t exactly news that Darcy liked.

“Did you wield it?” Loki demands. “Did you summon lightning with it?”

Darcy nods slowly. “There was a Shade that night. I wasn’t going to even use it, but the Shade threw me out of the wards and I was summoning magic and it _literally_ flew into my hands. What is the deal with that thing, by the way? I can understand the lightning- it’s weird, but whatever- but that it can _fly_? I thought it was just a really fancy hammer.”

Loki’s eyes narrow, affronted. “That is no mere hammer, Lewis. It was forged in the heart of a dying star; a relic of the Asgard of old, made long before any of us were even conceived.” He shakes his head in disgust. “A fancy hammer,” he laments. “What stories must Thor have fed you to believe that?”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “He didn’t speak much of it, to be honest. Not after the Turning. He thought Odin had kept it on Asgard.”

“As with all things, Odin’s actions had purpose. My father cast a spell upon Mjolnir and sent it to Midgard.” Loki’s expression turns pained. “I believe his intent was for Thor to search for it and prove himself worthy of returning to Asgard.”

Darcy’s eyes narrow. “What kind of spell are we talking about here?”

“One of worthiness,” he explains, and Darcy relaxes slightly. “‘Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor’.”

She swallows thickly, and rests her hands on her lap to hide the sudden tremor that runs through her. “I-” she tries, voice wavering, but any response is cut off by Prue and a woman in her late fifties approaching their table with trays laden with food. She gives the women a relieved smile, grateful for the interruption. “Kitty!” she cries, voice falsely bright.

Kitty’s returning smile is wry. “Wanderer,” her eyes run appreciatively over the rest of her company, eyebrows rising suggestively, “and Co.”

Darcy licks her lips, amused despite herself. Kitty is a notorious lecher, despite the absentminded hippie air she likes to cultivate. “Good to see you.”

“Right back atcha, sugar,” Kitty grins, and sets her tray down on the table. Darcy bites back a laugh when she leans forward, exposing her rather admirable cleavage. “Who’re your friends?” Kitty winks at Fandral, setting a bowl of stew in front of him. “I _love_ the armour.”

Fandral returns her affection with a rakish grin and beside her, Sif sighs heavily. Darcy could swear she hears her mutter ‘here we go’ under her breath. “Thank-you, my lady,” Fandral says charmingly, and Kitty laughs as she passes along two more bowls of stew and a large bowl filled with cornbread. Behind her, Prue shakes her head, rolling her eyes and walks around to the other side of the table, passing Sif and Darcy large, steaming bowls of stew.

Darcy introduces the Asgardians as the food is handed around, and Kitty smirks and flirts shamelessly with Fandral, who if anything seems to be thoroughly enjoying the attentions (his friends on the other hand, bear the interactions with a grim sort of resignation, and Darcy gets the feeling that times like these are fairly common for Fandral). Prue rolls her eyes even harder, tucking her tray beneath and arm. “I’ll be putting all of this on your tab,” she tells Darcy.

She nods, breathing in the rich smell of pork and beans and potatoes. “Please do. This looks great, Kitty.”

Kitty blinks at Darcy in surprise, momentarily distracted from Fandral, and Prue, sensing her opening, takes Kitty by her arm and forcibly drags her away from the table. “Thanks, Lewis!” Prue calls and they leave, Kitty squawking an outraged ‘excuse me, I was talking!’ as they go. Darcy snickers, and snags a spoon from the pile dumped in the centre of the table.

The table falls silent for a time as the others grab their own spoons, tucking into the stew without comment, but it’s not long before a thoughtful look crosses Volstagg’s face.

“Lady Lewis, do you know you can fly with the hammer?”

Darcy stares at Volstagg, wide eyed. “I can _what_? How?”

“Oh yes,” Sif says, spoonful of stew halfway to her mouth, partly forgotten. “The way Thor described it- you simply throw it and don’t let go.”

Darcy’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Um,” she says, “I don’t know who taught you the concept of throwing, but that’s not how we do it on Midgard.”

Sif shrugs, and continues eating. “He did not used to be the best at explaining things.”

“Hah.” Darcy’s hand tightens on the slice of cornbread in her hand and it breaks in her hold, landing in her stew and a good part of the table. “What else can it do?”

Hogun- mostly silent so far- smirks at her. “The question, Lady Lewis, it what can it _not_ do.”

 

* * *

 

The conversation over their meal is mostly dominated by the Asgardians, who speak with great enthusiasm about the various powers Mjolnir- and thus, Darcy- possesses. She finds the information invaluable and is content to play fly-on-the-wall as they talk, drinking in the conversation like a sponge and wondering when she’ll get an opportunity to try out the powers for herself. She doesn’t miss however, the way they steer clear of any stories involving Thor. She keeps waiting for the news to really sink in for them; it’s beyond obvious that all of them cared for the man like a brother (and in Loki’s case, quite literally), and Darcy can only imagine how fucked up this entire saga must be to them.

Natasha joins their little group towards the end of their meal, setting a plastic deck chair at the end of the table. Darcy grins at her and does the now-familiar round of introductions. Natasha smiles languidly at the group, and snags the last piece of cornbread.

“How’d the meeting go?” she asks, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it in her mouth.

Darcy shrugs, but she’s optimistic. “Okay; we hashed out a game plan.”

“Miss Lewis is too modest,” Sif says, and Natasha’s gaze falls on her with interest. “She is a skilled and pragmatic diplomat, and an invaluable wealth of knowledge and experience. She must be a valuable asset to your cause.”

Natasha’s smile is slow, but somewhat smug. “She’s one of the best.”

Darcy huffs and covers her face. “Please stop.”

“You are,” Natasha says, straight faced. “It’ll be a bad day when you finally decide to retire.”

Darcy grimaces at the thought. “More like a cold day in hell,” she mutters, and Natasha rolls her eyes at her dramatics, but Darcy can’t imagine herself ever retiring. She feels like she’s more likely to die out in the Wastes than retire and live out the rest of her days somewhere peaceful and secluded.

“Either way, how confident are you guys that you can face a Shade and survive?”

Loki raises a brow in a very Natasha-like way. “Are you testing us?”

“Should I be?”

“They’ll be fine,” Darcy says hurriedly, unwilling to let things turn sour with Loki again after dinner had been going so well. “Their weapons should work.”

“Good,” Natasha says, and stares at Darcy meaningfully. “Because I don’t want people going out there who can’t fight a Shade properly.”

Darcy bites the inside of her cheek. “I know,” she says, borderline defensive. She’s not had a chance to tell them yet (though she is probably guilty of putting it off, too). Natasha just nods, satisfied that she’ll do what needs to be done, and turns back to the Asgardians.

“If you’re all finished, I’d like to go over a few things with you,” she tells them. “There’s probably a few things Darcy hasn’t had the chance to explain further, and I’m sure you’ve got questions.”

Loki looks like he’s just sucked on a lemon. “Thank-you,” he says haltingly. “We would be… grateful for further insight.”

“Great,” Natasha drawls, and stands. The Asgardians follow suit, but Darcy remains seated, Roger and Evangeline copying her. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you back to HQ.” She gives Darcy another meaningful look. “I’ll see you back there?”

She smiles up at her, falsely bright. “Sure.”

“Good,” she hums, and leads the Asgardians back out of Barclays.

Darcy sighs heavily, and nudges her empty bowl towards the centre of the table. Evangeline looks at her warily as she dumps a good number of coins on the table as a tip, and Darcy just _knows_ that he already knows what she’s going to have to tell them. She sighs again and edges her way off the seat awkwardly. “C’mon,” she says. “I wanna pick some stuff up from our rooms.”

“Okay,” Evangeline says quietly, and they get up from the table with far more grace than Darcy. They walk silently up to their room, and the weariness of before returns in full force. A heaviness in her chest that makes her regret eating so much.

The door to their room opens with a quiet creak of protest; inside is dark, the shapes of their bunks only dark shadows against the walls, their packs sitting like dead things on the floor. The tread of her boots on the wooden floorboards is loud, and the sounds of other people is a steady thrum of noise outside. She draws open the curtains on the window and a white sliver of moonlight streams through the dusty glass; a shining triangle of silver on the floor. Darcy sits down heavily on the edge of her bunk and looks carefully at her soldiers, faces thrown in shadow.

Roger and Evangeline stare back. There is a resigned cast to Evangeline’s expression.

“You’re leaving us here,” he says quietly. There is no question in his voice. Darcy’s shoulders slump.

“Only for the night.”

He clenches his jaw tightly and looks away but Roger stares her down mulishly. “You said you would apprentice us.”

“I still am. Leaving you behind tonight has nothing to do with that.”

“We should be going out there with you!”

Irritation flares in her chest. “You’ve been out of cryosleep for a handful of fucking days, Roger! I _can’t_ take you out there.”

“Can’t or won’t?” his face twists angrily as he spits out the words and Darcy’s hands clench where they rest on her knees.

“Both!” she snaps. “You know next to nothing about fighting a Shade- you’ve only just started feeling out Earth magics and now you want to throw yourself into a goddamn swarm? Fucking forget it! You’d be a danger to yourself and every other hunter out there!”

“What about the Asgardians? They know less than we do!”

Darcy’s eyes narrow and she stands. She’s almost too irate to realise this is the most she’s ever heard Roger speak. Almost. “They’re. Not. Human. They’re different from us- immortal, damn near indestructible and _hundreds_ of fucking years old! But more importantly, their weapons are capable of doing proper damage to a Shade. And I’m sorry Roger, but right now you just can’t compare.”

“And what are we meant to do here? Sit around and do nothing?” he snarls back, taking a threatening step towards her. Darcy returns the favour, bristling with defensive anger. Things had been so much easier before she’d found these two, and she hates herself for even thinking that way, but it’s true.

“I don’t know! You can stay in here, or go help out at HQ- hell you could even see if Phil would let you go out on patrols, but there’s no way in hell you’re coming with me. You wouldn’t last a hot minute out there.”

“But what if-” he breaks off, breathing heavily and the ‘something happens to you’ goes unspoke. The anger from a moment ago seems suddenly so petty and pointless.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she promises him, voice softening. She glances at Evangeline, who watches them with an oddly vulnerable look on his face. “Nothing,” she reiterates. “But you’re my apprentices, and that makes your safety my responsibility. I can’t keep you safe out there. Not tonight.”

Roger glares at her, but Darcy weathers his ire with a calmness that feels strange and out of place. “Fine,” he grits out eventually, and he turns away, every line of his body taut with tension. Darcy sighs in resignation, staring down at the triangle of moonlight on the floor.

“I have to go,” she says. “I need to help out back at HQ.”

Roger says nothing. Darcy swallows back her disappointment and turns to leave. She pauses beside Evangeline. He watches her warily, and she gives him a weak smile, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be okay,” she promises again. The corners of his mouth twitch unhappily, but his hand rises to squeeze hers gently. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out and he closes it quickly. He lets her hand go when she moves away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door closes behind her quietly, and Darcy comforts herself with knowing that at least it went better than it could have gone.

 

[1] Galdr is the masculine equivalent of Seidr (though it could be used by both); it’s the use of runic oral spells to case magic. If you would like to read more, check out <http://realrunemagick.blogspot.com.au/2015/05/galdr-just-how-was-it-done.html> and <http://www.sunnyway.com/runes/galdr.html>

[2] Volva is a witch (to severely oversimplify the term, but for the purposes of the fic it’ll do). If you’d like to know more, check out Wikipedia and also <http://freya.theladyofthelabyrinth.com/?page_id=258>

[3] Best to clarify here; normal weapons are mostly just conduits, but magical weapons amplify and can store power of their own, making a single hunter far more effective than they would with just the runes on their arms. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea when the next chapter will go up; I'm in the last two weeks of my last semester at uni (!!!!!), then I've got 6 weeks of prac and two huge research assessments to do during it, so time is not really on my side here. So thank you for for patience! It's much appreciated :*


	17. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead. This fic is DEFINITELY not abandoned. I've just been hella busy. Have a little something to tide you over whilst I work on the next chapter ^.^

The room is silent, filled with things better left unsaid and a bitter undercurrent that makes the machinery in his arm whir in the wake of Darcy’s departure. ~~Roger~~ Steve stands by the window, staring out blankly at the road beyond, and he glares at him in reproach.

“You big dumb idiot,” he says, and the words feel familiar, like muscle memory. ~~Steve~~ ~~Roger~~ _Steve_ stiffens.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he growls, and crosses his arms, half surprised when he doesn’t feel the tight press of leather straps against his skin. It feels liberating and alien to wear civilian clothes. Sometimes he wishes for the security of the jacket and muzzle again, though he’ll never tell anyone. “You’re a dumbass.”

Steve sets his jaw, chin jutting out in a way that is achingly familiar, but the memories are jumbled. Broken. It hurts his head trying to think of them, so he stops trying. “She could have told us sooner.”

He shakes his head. “You coulda thought about it sooner.”

Steve’s face darkens. His glare is a heady thing, weighed down by memories of a skinny boy with skinny arms and bruises blossoming on his cheek, and busted knuckles that ooze sluggish blood. He doesn’t know who the boy is; he thinks it’s Steve, but everything that made them _them_ has been sliced and carved away from their bones, until there’s nothing left but blood and viscera and white-hot pain. Every memory that comes back is a fight, an agony of second-guessing.

“We should be with her.”

~~Evangeline~~ ~~Bucky~~ ~~James~~ _Evangeline_ (he doesn’t know what he really wants to call himself, only that he doesn’t want to be солдат anymore. Never again) bares his teeth. Steve is being stupid. “We can’t fight them,” he says angrily. “We’ve never even seen them! She’s right and you’re an idiot for thinking we wouldn’t be a burden out there.”

“She could get hurt!”

“And so could we!”

Steve pauses. Evangeline watches as his shoulders suddenly slump, like all the fight’s gone out of him, and he sits down heavily on Darcy’s bunk, head in his hands. “I don’t like this,” he confesses. Evangeline bares his teeth.

“And you think I do?”

Steve’s fingers dig into his hair as he growls. “That’s not what I meant.”

Evangeline swallows. His throat feels tight and raw. It’s the most he’s spoken since Darcy took them out of the ice; the most either of them have spoken. The thought that they are allowed to speak at will now is a novelty, but it’s not one he’s going to discount, for all that every word that escapes is a struggle. “Darcy is… strong. And she has the hammer. She can- can hold her own.”

“So can we,” Steve says stubbornly. Evangeline rolls his eyes and turns away. Steve huffs and looks up. Outside, a woman laughs loudly, the sharp, high sound piercing through the tense silence. “Where are you going?”

“I’m saying goodbye to Darcy.” Like they should have when she left them here.

Steve sighs. Evangeline waits by the door for him to join him. “I… do not like this,” he says lowly. “We’re weapons. Meant to be used.”

Evangeline turns to regard the man carefully, and for a moment he is struck by the assault of a memory of a time like this; Steve staring at him with unsurety in his eyes, for all the straight, proud lines of his shoulders. The memory is burnt and faded like an afterimage; an echo that hovers behind them like a spectre. Evangeline shakes his head and curls his fist to chase the memory away. Moments of dejavu like this have grown more frequent, but they still unnerve him.

Steve stares back at him solemnly, and Evangeline is suddenly struck by the impulse to touch his face and poke his cheeks until he smiles. He resists- the impulse is even stranger than the sluggish but constant return of a stranger’s memories- and turns away. “She’s a weapon too,” he manages. The words feel like wisdom. “Better than us.”

At fighting Shades, at any rate.

Steve growls again, and opens the door with more force than is necessary. “чушь собачья,” he says, slipping out of English likely without even realising. “Оружие не имеют воли[1].”

Evangeline clenches his jaw and watches Steve march past him without a backwards glance.

 

[1] Bullshit. Weapons have no will.


	18. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy wants to punch Loki, and the murder ducklings say sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter I've been dreading for MONTHS. God, no wonder it took so long to write.... But it's done, and so is 2016. Here's to hoping 2017 will be better (though I doubt it).

 

The back of TINT HQ is nothing less than organised chaos. Hunters dart between cars and trucks, loading trunks and trays with more gear than Darcy truly thinks they’ll need, and harried-looking medics load kits into every vehicle they can. ‘Just in case,’ she hears one of them say to a trainee as they walk past her, and Darcy thinks a lot of the gear they’re packing is for that reason.

Just in case.

Just in case there are more than they expect. Just in case the Shades are bigger and meaner than they’re used to. Just in case all their heavy-hitters are taken down.

She swallows uneasily and watches the way the dust puffs up beneath the frantic feet hurrying through the square. Her truck is parked down the road, one of a long line of vehicles already packed and ready to leave. As she stands there, another two dusty SUV’s leave to join the line.

The anxiety from before is back with a vengeance; she can’t help but fret about tonight and her skin crawls with the need to do something- anything- but Darcy’s truck was ready twenty minutes ago, and with five minutes before she needs to meet with Natasha and the other leaders, there’s not much she can do. She tries to think of other things, but her mind is not a happy place this night, and her argument with Steve plays on loop in her mind instead. Things could have been worse, but they certainly could have gone better too, and the guilt of leaving on such unhappy terms makes her almost nauseous.

They all know better than to leave untended business like that.

“Darcy,” someone says behind her, and she startles. Natasha smiles back at her when she turns, a knowing look in her eyes. “You ready?”

She breathes out slowly, grounding herself, and nods. “As I’ll ever be… Are the Asgardians joining us?”

Natasha nods. “That Sif’s an interesting one, isn’t she?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow. Natasha’s carefully cultivated conversational tone doesn’t fool her; the woman’s always had a competency kink. Darcy is more than proof of that. “If you’re going to sleep with her, at least wait until after this is all over.”

Natasha _almost_ looks affronted, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips that makes Darcy rolls her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

She shrugs, and loops an arm around the crook of Darcy’s elbow. “Don’t worry, принцесса. You’re still my favourite.”

She huffs a laugh and lets the older woman guide her up the ramp. “That’s a relief. Wouldn’t want to think I’ve been usurped.” Darcy pauses at the mouth of the building and glances back at the hubbub. She freezes.

Natasha sighs. “Well. Looks like your murder ducklings turned up to say goodbye after all.”

Darcy glances back at her sharply, but the sight of Steve and Evangeline hovering awkwardly by the line of vehicles is more heartening than she’d thought possible and she can’t stop the slow smile that spreads across her face. Natasha snickers at her and shoves her lightly.

“You’re sickening.”

“Shut up, or I’ll tell Sif about that one time with the cow. See how much she’ll want to bone you then.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You wouldn’t.”

“See if I do. I’m not afraid of you snookums.”

Natasha growls, lunging for her but Darcy just dances away from her, laughing. “I’ll be with you for the briefing soon,” she calls out in a sing-song voice, ignoring the unnerved looks the hunters around them send the two of them.

“Don’t go thinking I’ll forget this treachery!” Natasha calls out. Darcy laughs at her again and flips her the bird, and Natasha rolls her eyes before retreating inside.

Her mirth fades as she walks over to Steve and Evangeline. The feeling is replaced with something more sombre and she stares at them levelly as she draws close. She’s surprised to see them here; even if they’d managed to work out their differences, she imagines there’s too many people here for them to feel comfortable. As it is, Evangeline looks about ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, and Steve glares at her mulishly.

“Hey,” she says, and she smiles nervously, unsure of how she stands with them- with Steve- after their argument. “You came.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, and Evangeline elbows him viciously in the ribs. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but his eyes narrow dangerously. She smiles again despite herself, a little slap-happy at the sight of them, and Evangeline’s tentative returning smile just makes her grin broader. Steve’s expression darkens further in response and Evangeline elbows him again.

“We came to apologise,” he grits out, staring at her defiantly, and the look on his partner’s face is positively proud. “We… shouldn’t have let you leave on that note.”

She bites her lip, and his expression softens just a fraction. “I’m sorry too,” she tells them, and the line of his shoulders seems to relax fractionally. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you. That was selfish of me- I should have told you sooner. And I’m sorry for snapping, too. I know you just want to help.”

“You’ll stay safe, won’t you?”

She nods. “As safe as I can be,” she promises. “But with Mjolnir, I think I’ll be okay.” On impulse, she reaches out, grasping his shoulder lightly. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

He looks away, jaw tightening again. “You’d better,” he says, and with his dark tone it sounds half like a threat. “You’ve got to come back and teach us how to fight these things.”

She grins. “I’ll try my hardest.” She draws in close, hand still gripping his shoulder and tugs him down so she can press her forehead to his. Steve stiffens at the gesture, and Darcy closes her eyes, his breath hot and close. “Stay safe,” she murmurs, “don’t die.”

His breath escapes in a humourless chuckle and she pulls away. “The same to you,” he rasps, his eyes wide, face pale but for two light spots of pink on his cheeks. He looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly, and she watches as his gaze falls on another couple two cars over, hands on the other’s shoulder as they lightly bump their foreheads together. Understanding flickers across his face.

She moves to Evangeline, and he doesn’t flinch or stiffen beneath her touch like Steve, but rather imitates her, his flesh hand gripping her shoulder lightly. “Stay safe,” she breathe when he leans down to press his forehead against hers. His skin is hot like Steve’s, and the heat of him is more of a comfort than she’d like to admit.

“Don’t die,” he answers, smiling at her wryly. She laughs softly, fingers tightening on his jacket despite herself. Evangeline, when she pulls away, looks just as shaken as Steve. She bites her lip and steps backwards, embarrassed. The gesture has grown familiar to her over the years, though she does it far less than most.

“I’d… better go,” she says, gesturing behind herself to the building. Steve nods mechanically. “I’m probably late for briefing. Once everyone is gone, you should speak to Phil, okay? He’ll find a job for the two.”

“We will,” Steve replies. She grins and leaves, her heart feeling far lighter than it had been five minutes ago.

* * *

Darcy ends up with the Asgardians in her truck, by unanimous vote from the rest of her team, most of whom seem to fall somewhere between curious and wary of them. She bears it with good grace, and is only half-grateful that Fandral and Volstagg choose to sit in the back of the tray; she’s certain she’d die of laughter if she had to stare at three heavily armoured Asgardians crammed into the back of her truck the entire drive, though it’s a shame Loki is the one who ends up riding shotgun. She’d have much rather have Sif, or even Hogun, for all that he doesn’t seem to speak much.

The Asgardians, for the most part (excluding Loki, who if anything is surlier than before) seem to regard her tuck as something of a novelty.

“It’s so quaint!” Volstagg rumbles, the five of them standing around her vehicle curiously. Hogun crouches by the front wheels, peering at the undercarriage, and Fandral looks moments away from opening the hood and poking around at the engine.

Honestly.

“They still use combustion,” Hogun grins. Darcy rolls her eyes viciously.

“Yes, yes, we still use combustion,” she growls at their curiosity, earnest enough to be taken as condescending. “In case you’ve not noticed, we never got a chance to get further than that, thank-you very much.”

Four of them at least have the grace to look chastised, but Loki remains as aloof as ever. Darcy sighs, and she motions towards the truck half-heartedly. “Get in,” she tells them, and she wrenches open her door with a little more force than is necessary. “You’ll hold up the line.”

And a line it is, she thinks to herself as the Asgardians get into her truck. Fifteen vehicles in total, all brimming with grim-faced hunters and weapons and medic kits made for _just in case_. They leave HQ in what feels like an unending cavalcade; a morbid parade of New Triskelion’s finest, trailing slowly through the streets. They’re met by the unsmiling, sombre presence of the townspeople that line each side of the road. In the distance, the sounds of battling Shades trembles in the air, audible over even the loudest of trucks. Darcy studiously avoids the gaze of their watchers, eyes trained stubbornly on the back of the SUV in front of them. She feels ill.

The Asgardians must feel the same; from the corner of her eye, she catches Loki stare out at the solemn crowd. Some people have lit candles- a prayer to whoever may listen to keep their loved ones safe. Darcy wonders how many may sputter out before the night is done.

“This crowd,” Sif starts, her voice breaking through the heavy silence, “it is so quiet. So sad… do your people not welcome the battle?”

 Irritation sparks in her chest, and Darcy glances at her through the rear-vision mirror; she watches the unsmiling people with a distinct sense of unease. “War’s not been a time for celebration for decades,” she says darkly. “With billions of people dead, most are less-than-happy to risk their lives, or those of their loved ones.” She thinks of Thor, his blood drying on her hands as she’d covered him with heavy stones. “There’s no glory in this world; only survival.”

Sif breathes out slowly, and looks away from the onlookers, embarrassed. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. “That was crass of me.”

“It’s fine,” Darcy says, and if her voice is a little shorter than it should be, neither of them comment on it. They fall back into an uneasy silence.

The drive out of New Triskelion is slow, hampered by the sheer number of vehicles and people outside; it speeds up a little once they escape the inner wards, and even moreso once out of New Triskelion proper. Darcy is still reminded of her youth, sitting bored in peak hour traffic while her mother curses at the cars that cut in front of them. She used to make up stories about the other drivers in her head.

The ache in her chest at the thought of everything they’ve lost is a familiar one.

“Tell me about Thor,” Loki says suddenly. Darcy glances over at him in surprise, but he stares out at the long line of red lights before them, twisting down the highway like a trail of eyes, winking and flickering back at them.

“What do you want to know?”

She watches the tendons in his neck tighten as he clenches his jaw. He turns to her, gaze solemn, for once empty of contempt. “Everything.”

Darcy is quiet for a long moment, wondering where she should start. _From the beginning_ , she decides eventually. She avoids the gaze of her passengers, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Jane and I found Thor on a science trip out in the New Mexico desert, although ‘found’ is maybe the wrong term to use there. ‘Crashed into with our van’ is probably more accurate.” She smiles wryly out at the unending trail of taillights. “Jane was an astrophysicist; she studied the stars, and Einstein-Rosen bridges, though most of the academic community thought she was too kooky to be taken seriously. I’d been interning with her for a month when Thor turned up.”

Darcy huffs a laugh. “He was so… crazy,” she admits. “At the start he kept going on about this place- this crazy, weird place. Eric thought he was mad- half the time I agreed with him, even if we did have footage of him appearing in that light storm Jane had been chasing. Him and Jane hit it right off though; I’d never seen two people fall in like with each other so quickly. When Shield turned up and stole all of Jane’s research, he was as furious as the rest of us.” Her fingers tap at the wheel impatiently as they slow down. She’s glad they accounted for extra time now.

“That’s one thing I did notice about him… he was an angry man. Kind, too, and caring when it came to those he liked, but there was always this… edge of anger to him. Sometimes he’d be so bitter and angry Jane would have to kick him out until he cooled off. These days, I feel sorry for him- I can scarcely imagine how _abandoned_ and lonely he must have been, even with us there, but back then we just found it exasperating.”

Loki’s expression as he watches her talk is unreadable. “Did he tell you why he was banished?”

She shrugs at him. The procession of vehicles abruptly turns as they take a side road, and she’s forced to slow down even further. “A little. He said Earth was his penance; that his father sent him here to learn obedience or something.” She frowns. “But I don’t know- he always seemed to only half believe it. If he drank too much he used to go on about how ‘the Allfather did everything for a reason’, like he was waiting for a time to save the day.”

“Thor was a stubborn man,” Sif says, and Darcy snorts.

“ _God_ , tell me about it. This one time he played chicken with a truck _and won_.”

The Asgardian laughs. “That would have been a sight to see.”

“It was,” Darcy sighs. She turns into the side road carefully, aware of the others in the tray of her truck. “He _was_ a good man though, for all that he lacked a modest bone in his body. And he treated Jane like a queen, so as far as I was concerned, that made him alright… though it made sleeping in the room across from them a nightmare.”

Loki straightens in his seat, staring at her in surprise. “He bedded a _human?_ ”

Darcy sends him a scathing look. There’s no need to sound so appalled. _Idiot_. “Dude,” she says flatly. Hogun kicks the back of his seat pointedly, and Loki scowls, crossing his arms petulantly. He opens his mouth to speak- likely to say something scathing and equally offensive, but Sif cuts him off, a slightly desperate tone to her voice.

“What happened when Thanos attacked?”

Darcy starts, blinking in surprise. “I- what?”

“You call his attack the Turning, yes?” Sif asks, and Darcy nods slowly. “What happened? Our records of Midgard were scant at best, and there was too much interference for us to viably send a scouting team.”

Darcy purses her lips. She doesn’t particularly like the clinical way that Sif speaks of Earth, like they’re just some uninhabited planet of little consequence. And maybe they were, to the Asgardians, but to her, they are very, _very_ real. What happened here _does_ have a consequence, and everyday, she has to live with the realities of what these so-called gods have wrought upon her world.

“We were in the desert when it happened,” she says stiffly. “Far enough removed from most of civilisation to escape it.” She closes her eyes for a short moment, remembering the distant roar of it. They couldn’t see the mushroom clouds from the bombs- the way the skies burned like the pits of hell- but the muted sound of it is still as fresh in her mind as the day they’d heard it, echoing in her ribs in the later hours of the morning.

“There was no warning… we didn’t know it was; didn’t know what happened until later, but Thor worked out pretty quickly that something had happened to the Earth magics. We hid beneath the RV when the clouds came- he taught us how to flush out the dirty magic before it could make us sick. We probably would have died in those first days if it weren’t for him.”

Loki raises an unimpressed brow. “You did not know how to purge yourselves of magic?” he asked derisively. Darcy scowls at him.

“Using magic fell out of fashion centuries ago,” she snaps back. “Ever since the industrial revolution; Earth magics were only ever much use for farmers, anyway.”

He snorts in disbelief. “Only good for farming? I thought Midgard was backwards,” he drawls, “but I never thought it was this bad.”

Darcy growls, and contemplates hitting the brakes so she can watch him fly through the windscreen. The thought of having to repair it stops her, more than anything else. “You are lucky there is a train of vehicles behind us,” she says, voice low and dangerous, “else I would have stopped the truck and you could fucking walk. You may think yourself a king, but on Earth you’re nothing but a poser who’s never even wet their feet.”

“ _Poser_?” Loki hisses, and suddenly the cabin is heavy with magic, the charged air crackling with energy and the hairs on Darcy’s arms prickle. “I have battled giants and felled Titans. I have witnessed planets turned to ash, its people slaughtered on the whims of gods. I looked on as the Mad Titan burnt to nothing, as he laughed at his own pain. What do you know of hardship, you mewling quim?”

“Loki!” Sif exclaims, ignored in the back seat.

“Oh yeah?” Darcy snarls. “And where were you when your brother’s blood soaked the cursed earth? Where were you when I had to cover his body with rocks because the ground was too dry to bury him? Where were you when his wife died and his son wasted away hours after his birth?”

Behind them, someone make a soft, wounded sound and Loki rears back from her as though slapped. “A child?” Loki breathes, surprise and grief visible on his face in equal measure. “He- _a child?_ ”

Darcy glares out at the road. The magic saturating the air is gone, replaced with a cold despairing emptiness that hurts like a visceral thing. “Three years after the Turning, Jane got pregnant. She died in childbirth and the baby went not long after. Thor was never the same. He _let_ that Shade kill him and _I had to pick myself up after_. So don’t speak to me of hardship. Don’t treat me like I’m a child with no idea of the world, Loki son of Odin.”

Loki bows his head, eyes closed. Hogun murmurs something in a language Darcy doesn’t understand; it sounds like a prayer. Sif stares back at her through the rearview mirror, eyes rimmed with red, as though moments from crying, and Darcy’s anger drains away, replaced with an aging grief and shame.

She bites the inside of her cheek. “I’m- sorry,” she says haltingly. Ahead of them, the line of vehicles take another sharp turn. “I- I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Loki murmurs, and his eyes, when he turns to look at her, are ancient, filled with a pain Darcy can scarcely understand. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have.”

The cabin falls into a tense silence, none of them feeling the desire to continue talking, and Darcy puts the rest of her focus into driving, pushing any thoughts of Thor and Jane firmly from her mind. She can’t shake the ache in her chest, but the feeling is old- familiar.

As they draw closer to the Asgardian’s landing site and the swarm, the sounds of the Shades grow louder- their eerie screams echoing through the empty landscape- and the Asgardians shift nervously in their seats. The transceiver on her dash crackles into life, and she snatches the microphone from its cradle before Natasha can even finish her address.

“ _This is Widow. Approaching drop site alpha_ , _five klicks to the north,_ ” Natasha says, her voice emotionless over the radio. “ _Teams Gamma, Delta and Epsilon split up; spotters on point, don’t get caught out. Over._ ”

“This is Stargazer. Copy that Widow,” Darcy acknowledges. Monnie, in the SUV before hers, pulls off and Darcy follows her- they’re taking a series of back roads to hopefully come at the Shades from the side. “Team Gamma on route. Over.”

The other teams voice their acknowledgments after her. There’s a slight pause, before the radio clicks on again. “ _This is Widow; orders received,_ ” Natasha says. Her voice seems quieter, more reserved. “ _You know the plan; stick to it. Stay safe; don’t die. Widow out. Over._ ”

Darcy’s mouth twists wryly, and she hooks the radio back into its cradle. What she wouldn’t give to be out alone in the Deep right now, free from all this responsibility and _fear_. She watches with trepidation as two of Monnie’s passengers perch themselves on the windows of the SUV, their arms wrapped between the cargo rails to watch for wayward Shades as they zero in on the drop site.

The sound of an enraged scream tears through the tense and drawn-out silence of the cabin only moments before Monnie’s SUV hits the brakes and Darcy curses, veering to the side to avoid rear-ending them. Behind them, the other vehicles in her team do the same.

“ _Shade half a mile out_ ,” Monnie says over the radio, voice breathless. There is a pause, as she confers with one of her trackers. “ _Mike says it’s a level four, at least. Think it might have been leaving but it’s caught wind of us._ ”

The tension in Darcy’s chest eases, and she turns off her truck and jumps out, jogging over to Monnie, already sliding out of the passenger door of her SUV. More hunters quickly join them, and Darcy huffs, reminded as they draw close, of how short she is.

“Alright, listen up,” she says, projecting her voice to reach her small gathering. “This Shade’s a big-ish one, and when we kill it, it’s gonna attract a whole lot more, and most of them aren’t likely to be pretty. Glitter sticks aren’t necessary when there’s this many of us, but those not fighting, I want you baiting this place,” she grin, wide and a little feral. “Load yourselves up with as much magic as you can, make this as big and as pretty as you’d like. Monnie, Mike and I will take this one out; make it as flashy as possible. Asgardians, you’re to sit this first one out; watch how we kill it so you’re ready for the next lot. Are we clear?”

A chorus of ‘yes ma’am’ is shouted back at her and she bites back a smile. It’s immensely gratifying to be called that, she thinks to herself.

She breathes in deep, pulling magic into her, and around her other hunters begin doing the same. The Asgardians watch them with curiosity, but Darcy avoids their eye, the bitter argument between her and Loki still fresh in her mind. She focusses instead on the heady push and pull of magic around her, letting it infuse her soul and relishing the way it gathers beneath her skin, bubbling beneath the scarified runes on her arms. On a whim, she holds her arm out, lets the image of the hammer flying towards her fill her mind and thinks _come_.

There is a moment’s pause, and Darcy wonders if somehow it won’t work despite Sif’s promises, but then she _feels it answer her_. Feels the slightest pull on the magic gathered inside her and hears it lift from the tray of her truck. The hunters around her made exclamations of surprise and she grins as it flies through the air and lands shortly in her outstretched hand.

Energy prickles up and down her spine, rippling out from her chest all the way down to the tips of her fingers. She shivers. “That’s not going to get old anytime soon,” she breathes. Beside her, Monnie and her brother eye her with poorly disguised shock.

“Tell me about it,” Mike says. Darcy doesn’t miss the envious cast to his stare and she smirks at him and slings the hammer over her shoulder, its weight almost comforting.

“Shall we?” she asks. Monnie and Mike nod grimly and draw their weapons, the runes on them glowing dully. She strides forwards, away from her team and her partners fall into line beside her.

The air around them feels charged- electric- and the hunters gathering energy to them feels like a burning beacon behind her, daring her to turn back. The wayward Shade screams again, and Darcy can just make out its form, rippling with shadows and light as though lit from within, and it bounds across the ground with a terrifying, alien grace. It towers over the empty plains, easily twice the height of her; a level five, she suspects, gorged on the residual energy from the Bifrost and other Shades. Darcy breathes in deep, and her grip on Mjolnir tightens. The runes on her arms glow brighter, the magic collecting here a heady thing.

“C’mon you big bastard,” she growls. The Shade bounds ever closer, unaware of its doom, and Monnie and Mike flank her, standing just behind her, ready to come in at the Shade from the sides.

The unearthly wail of a thousand dying souls fills the air again, and she grits her teeth, wondering for a moment where this creature first came from. Not that it matters anymore; Shades are mindless, intent only on eating, going on and on until there’s nothing left.

As it draws closer, its form grows clearer. The size of a small bus, it towers above the plains, and it sprawls on its many twisted limbs like a centipede.

Behind her, Mike whistles appreciatively. “Fuck me, he’s big,” he breathes. Darcy just laughs, thinking back to the early days.

“I’ve seen bigger,” she says, and she bounds forwards to meet the Shade head on, Mjolnir swinging through the air in a fluid arc of electricity. She slams into it with an animalistic cry, and she feels its shell puncture, arm and hammer sinking into its core with almost sickening ease. Magic bursts from it in a wave of hot, fetid air, washing over her and sicking to her skin like grease. Darcy bares her teeth in savage pleasure as it screams, and she feels more than sees Mike and Monnie rushing in from the sides to attack it from behind. Monnie’s axes flashes of silver light that gouge into the monster like butter. Distantly, as she swings at it again, Darcy makes a mental note to find out who their maker is; she’s sure her boys could use some

The Shade writhes beneath their joint attacks, it’s screeching, enraged cries piercing through the night sky and rattling though her skull. Darcy dodges out of the way of a clumsy swipe, its arm missing her by inches and it screams at her again, gripping at her chest like a vice. To the uninitiated, it may have frozen her in place, but Darcy remembers attacks like these from the early years, when one out of ten shades they’d come across were this big, and she screams back at it wildly, dispelling the dirty magic from her before it can take root.

Darcy backs away from it, breathing in deeply and revelling in the way the magic burns through her lungs like a cleansing fire. She takes a running jump, leaping inhumanly high to land on its back, feet and hammer first. The outer shell of the Shade crumples beneath Mjolnir and the lightning created in its wake ripples around her, burning through the dirty magic that spews from the creature’s wound. It wails and bucks beneath her tenuous perch like an angry bull, sending Darcy flying through the air. She drops Mjolnir, air rushing her ears, and rolls as she lands. Dust kicks up around her, dead grass catching in her hair. She spits out a mouthful of dead grass, and laughs as Mjolnir flics back into her hand with only the briefest thought.

“You alright Lewis?” Monnie calls out as she hacks off another of its limbs.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she yells back, laughing as she twirls the hammer around her head by its leather thong, just like Sif showed her a few hours before. Lightning streaks through the air around her, growing in blinding intensity the longer she swings Mjolnir and the power of it saturating her bones makes her giddy.

She runs at the Shade, screaming like a banshee, and slams into it with all the force she can muster. The monster goes flying away from the two of them, and they hear a startled squawk from Mike as the Shade tumbles. Dirty magic settles around them, and for a moment, they are still.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Monnie breathes out, staring at the cripple Shade in awe. “ _Jesus._ ”

“Yeah,” Darcy says, grinning at the sight, still a little light-headed. Electricity traces across her fingers and Monnie eyes the sigh appreciatively. She winks at the younger woman. “Tell me about it.”

Mike stands up a feet in front of them, and bushes the dust from his pants. He only looks a little disgruntled to have almost been squashed by the Shade. “That was impressive Lewis,” he says. “Guess the stories about you had some merit.”

Darcy grimaces at him and motions at the Shade. It’s struggling to get up, dirty magic oozing from its wounds, and what few twisted limbs are left crumple beneath its weight like a newborn foal. It’s crippled for now, but she knows from experience that it won’t take long for it to reshape itself. It’s the thing she’s always loathed about them; their ability to adapt.

“C’mon,” she sighs, and she starts swinging Mjolnir again. Monnie and her brother jump away from her, eyeing the lighting that appears around her warily. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

They advance on the Shade, and, sensing their approach, it screams at them in fury, its attempts to get up growing more desperate. Darcy doesn’t hesitate; she swings Mjolnir back and crashes it into its head, Mike and Monnie doing the same to the side of it, going at it with fevered determination. Magic oozes from it with less fervour than before, and she notes with satisfaction that the creature looks smaller.

When the Shade is destroyed, its death is a quiet _pop_ , like the sound of the pressure shifting in her ears. The three of them spare a moment to grin at each-other, breathing heavily.

“That was-” Monnie pants, “amazing.”

“Also terrifying,” Mike adds, and his sister nods. She wipes away the sweat and dust from her brow with the back of her hand.

“Still amazing though. Holy shit, that move on it’s back? A thing of beauty. No idea how you managed it, but who even cares?”

“Thank-you,” Darcy puffs. Dirty magic sits around their feet like a heavy fog, and would likely make her nauseous were she not so high on magic and adrenaline. She ponders the merits in cleansing the place now, but in the end decides against it; better to do it all at once when the battle is over, she thinks. She glances up at the sky; clouds have gathered, sitting low and heavy in the air, though Darcy could have sworn it had been clear half an hour ago. She almost hopes it doesn’t rain; the last thing they want is having to deal with Shades _and_ the mud. In the distance, she can hear more inhuman screams, and she wonders how the other teams are faring. “We should get back,” she murmurs.

Her partners nod mutely, and they trudge back to the group, who stand silently by their vehicles. The air amongst them is electric, saturated with magic, and someone has had the foresight to plant some glitter sticks in the earth to be used as more lures. She nods approvingly at the sight of them and ignores the awed looks her team sends the three of them.

“Guess we know now why you can travel solo,” one of the men- Carston, she thinks his name is- says glibly. She sends him a flat, unimpressed look, but he just grins and winks at her. Darcy turns her attention to the Asgardians, who seem torn between impressed and appalled.

“What?” she says, hackles rising. Sif shakes her head and bites her lip.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just- your form.”

Darcy’s eyes narrow dangerously. “What about it?”

“It’s dreadful,” Loki says, likely before Sif can say anything more. “I’ve seen trolls with more skill.”

 Darcy blinks slowly at the five of them- Sif and the Warriors Three look guilty, but Loki’s face is a study of scathing contempt. She fights the urge to hit him with the hammer. Above them, the sky rumbles with thunder and Sif looks up at the gathered clouds, startled.

“Well, I’m sorry that I don’t have centuries’ worth of experience wielding it,” she drawls. “I’ll be sure to ask for your feedback when I’ve done so.”

Irritation flickers across Loki’s face, and he opens his mouth to retort, but one of their spotters beats him to it.

“We’ve got- shit- about five Shades headed our way,” she says from her perch on top of Monnie’s SUV. “Two level threes, a four and a- holy fuck, I reckon that’s a six.” The woman’s hands scratch nervously at her tattoos, and Darcy calls for her to get down. She slides down the side of the SUV, a little puff of dust rising when she lands on the ground, and Darcy quickly groups them into their teams to take down each of the oncoming Shades. She wrinkles her nose when she turns to the Asgardians.

“I guess you’re with me for the level six,” she says, glaring at Loki.  He glares right back.

“Try not to curb your enthusiasm.”

“Try not to die.”

To her right, Monnie coughs pointedly, and Darcy huffs, collecting the last couple of hunters to add to their team; the level six is going to _suck_ , she just knows it.

“Alright,” she tells her team, and the hunters watch her expectantly. God, she hopes they don’t expect a moving speech from her, because they’re about to be sorely disappointed. She coughs and straightens. “You know what to do. Cripple them, then go in for the kill. Make it quick. And… stay safe. Don’t die.”

The chorus of ‘stay safe, don’t die’s that are echoed back at her is disconcerting, but Darcy can only hope that the mantra holds true.


	19. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I tried, really hard to make this a direct continuation of the last chapter. I really did. But whatever I tried just would not work, so I gave up and jumped ahead instead. I didn't want to end up trapped on this chapter from here unto eternity :/

Darcy staggers up the stairs, dusty and sore. Her boots are lead weights, dragging her feet back down and she leans heavily against the old metal banister. Her heart is a slow, sluggish _thud, thud_ that echoes in her head, keeping in time with her feet hitting the concrete. Up she climbs- on and on and on, never-ending. She wonders if her room is really at the top of the stairs, or if she’s somehow stuck in an unending loop, doomed to lift one aching, heavy foot up again and again and again and again.

She might almost cry when she stumbles up the last few steps. She staggers down the empty corridor; her walk is unsteady and drunken, and her fingers fumble with the handle to her door, too shaky to get a proper grip.

She feels… hollow. Like someone has scooped out her insides and given her nothing to replace them. Every now and then, even the faithful beating of her heart seems to fall silent, and she wonders if she’s about to float away, pulled along by the desert winds.

The door swings open and Darcy falls through. The door slams shut behind her, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet of her head. She leans against the wood for a moment, staring up at the ceiling; peeling paint and plasterboard. Too exhausted to hold herself up any longer, she lets herself slide down, sitting on the floor, legs crumpling beneath her. She stares up at the ceiling again; it’s light now, though her room is dark, and a sharp line of sunlight spears across the plaster like a seam in reality.

She draws in a shaky breath and closes her eyes.  

“Darcy?” someone asks, and her eyes fly open. Evangeline stands uncertainly in front of her, and Steve stands beside one of the bunks. Darcy wonders how out of it she must be if she never even realised they were there.

She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. She’s so _tired_ , she just wants to fall asleep and never wake up. She stares down at his boots; part of her wonders if he sleeps in them.

“You’re… back,” he says uselessly. Darcy clenches her jaw. She stays silent.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. His voice is oddly emotionless, as though disconnected from his question. She wonders if he even cares, or if he just sticks around because of Evangeline.

She doesn’t think to ask them how they went in town.

“Darcy?” Evangeline asks again when she makes no effort to answer them. She flinches at the sound of her name and she hears him crouch down before her, the rubber soles of his boots squeaking softly on the polished hardwood. “What happened?”

Darcy opens her eyes, staring at him blankly. The hollow feeling is gone, replaced with a sickening feeling in the bit of her stomach and a screaming in her head is too close to the unearthly wails of the Shades, paired with the ringing in her ears in a way that is far from comforting.

“There was… there was a seven,” she rasps. Every word is a struggle, torn from her chest like a wound. Evangeline’s face betrays no emotion and Darcy wonders what he’s thinking. “We killed it, but-” she breaks off. She can’t bear speaking and focuses on steadying her breathing instead.

Evangeline reaches out and takes one of the hands that sit limply at her sides. He runs his metal thumb over the back of her knuckles and Darcy watches the movement with a worrying sense of detachment. His fingers glint in the dim light, the metal surface unmarred by scratches, warm to the touch and oh so gentle. He says nothing, and she’d be grateful, but there’s a distinct air of expectation around him as he waits for her to continue.

Her face crumples. “Monnie’s dead,” she tells him, voice so soft it’s barely even audible. She was one of Darcy’s, and her death feels like a personal failure. “One of six,” she manages to get out. Evangeline squeezes her fingers softly and she presses her lips together tightly. The drive back to New Triskelion had been an unpleasant one, each one of them in the truck acutely aware of the carefully covered body lying in the back. Darcy had driven slowly, the fear of jostling the young woman’s body heavy on her mind.

“I’m sorry,” Evangeline murmurs. He scoots over to sit beside her, close enough that his thigh brushes lightly against hers. From the bunk beds, Steve sighs and walks over to join them on the floor, sitting on her other side. She can feel the heat of him radiating across the small space between them. The room falls quiet again, empty of the platitudes and reassurances Darcy is sure she’d get from other people. She’s grateful.

“It started really well,” Darcy says. “We managed to split the swarm easily enough, took down the first lot, no problem. Then we started closing in on them and-” she breaks off, swallowing back the rising bile. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Huge, and its shape kept shifting like it couldn’t decide on a form to take; maybe- maybe it was too big to hold a stable form… we don’t know enough about them. A lot of the hunters panicked; no one’s heard of a seven outside of the Deep, and even then, they’re rare. It tore through us like we were nothing. Most of our weapons didn’t seem to even effect it.”

Evangeline’s fingers tighten around her hand and Darcy squeezes back unsteadily. She’s afraid to close her eyes- every time she blinks it’s like the image of its monstrous shifting body is etched into the thin skin of her eyelids, haunting her. She hasn’t felt like this since Thor. “There was only a handful of us that really seemed to have any effect on it. Monnie and Mike’s weapons are new, but they work like to the Asgardians’. We- She… she tried to jump onto it, but it shifted. It- it threw her to the ground and she-” Darcy’s voice breaks and she tugs her hand out of Evangeline’s to cover her face, pressing the heels of her palms into her burning eyes.

Mike’s horrified scream and his sister’s unmoving body, her blood dark on her pale skin, replays in her mind on repeat.

A hand touches the top of her head tentatively and Darcy stiffens in surprise before curling into herself tighter, like somehow she can hide herself away from everything.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and Darcy whimpers at the sound. “Sorry you had to fight and- see her die.”

“I had to drive her back,” Darcy sobs. “The truck was so quiet- all I could think of was her body lying in the tray. I’m going to have to wash her blood off of it.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Steve promises, and gingerly, he pulls her into his arms. Darcy doesn’t resist. He holds her awkwardly, patting her lightly on the back like a hysterical child, and she clutches at his jacket desperately. She doesn’t even care about how surprising his sudden familiarity is; all she wants to do is take in the faint smell of sweat and the remnants of the lavender soap from the public baths; so much like Thor that her chest feels like a great chasm has been cut into it.

She gets a hold of herself quickly, her sobs subsiding into ugly sniffles and Steve lets her draw away, and air of relief around him as she does. “Sorry,” she sniffs, and wipes at her eyes with the collar of her shirt. She wishes for the luxury of a packet of tissues right now. “God.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, glancing away from her as though unable to hold her gaze. Darcy doesn’t mind; she shouldn’t have taken advantage of his uncharacteristic congeniality like that anyway. “I’m sorry that she died. She seemed… nice.”

Darcy gives him a watery laugh. “She was, for all that I scarcely knew her. I liked her.” She grimaces and wipes at her face again. “Clint got hurt too- he broke his leg. He’s gonna be fine, the medics reckon, but…” Darcy shudders at the memory of the unnatural angle of his shin, nausea tightening around her throat. “An injury like that… he may as well retire now. At his age, it- well. He’s going to be walking with a limp for a long time.”

“But he’ll be alright?” Evangeline asks, a distinct edge to his voice. Darcy turns to him and offers him a tight smile. It’s nice to see him exhibiting some concern for someone other than her or Steve.

“So long as he doesn’t somehow make it worse, he should be alright,” she says carefully. “There’s always the risk of infection, but there’s a lot of people who have Clint’s best interests in mind. They’ll keep him alive.”

Evangeline nods, looking satisfied. “Good.”

Darcy sighs and stares down at her hands. She feels a little better now that she’s got the crying out of the way. A little more human. She wonders, with only a little guilt, how Natasha is faring.

“Would you like us to do anything?” Evangeline’s voice is soft and gentle, but Darcy jumps a little all the same. She shakes her head, too exhausted to even think of asking them what they did whilst she was gone.

“I just want to sleep,” she murmurs, and right on cue, gives a jaw-cracking yawn that she feels right down to her bones. “It feels like an age since I last slept.”

Evangeline stands up in one smooth movement and holds out his hand. Darcy takes it gratefully and lets him pull her up into a stand. Every part of her aches, and the left side of her body feels like one large bruise, courtesy of another tumble she’d had with the seven; a suspicion that is quickly confirmed when she drags off her outer shirt and tugs up the hem of her tank top. She grimaces at the darkened purple, blue and green mottling that covers half of her arm, and wraps around her hip like a grotesque tattoo. She settles her top back over the skin and ignores the sharp inhalation of breath from Steve and Evangeline. She’ll deal with her wounds later. For now she just wants to sleep.

Darcy staggers over to her bunk, her descent more of a controlled fall than anything else. She arrangers herself carefully on the old mattress, lying on her unbruised side and covers her eyes with the blindfold that hangs from the bottom rung of the ladder.

“Darcy-” Steve tries but Darcy just blindly holds up a hand. The screaming in her head has faded, but the ringing remains. At least the pulsating image of that Shade is gone.

“Later,” she slurs. “Whatever you wanna talk abou’, we’ll talk later.”

She curls herself around her pillow and concentrates on her breathing.

By the time she hits breath number thirty, she’s fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Darcy,” Thor sighs, staring across the table with his big, sad eyes. Darcy is reminded of the old Labrador her neighbour used to own when she was a child. She used to feed it chicken that she’d steal from the fridge, but no matter how much she fed it, those sad eyes never changed.

“Thor,” she sighs back. The word feels like a battle. Everything feels like a battle these days, ever since-

Her grip tightens around the knife in her hand.

“We _must_ go,” Thor continues, oblivious to her discomfort. His gaze seems distant, wandering off somewhere behind her as he speaks. “We must find it.”

Darcy can smell the burning scent of alcohol on him from across the table. “You’re drunk,” she accuses.

“The fate of the world may rely upon it; Mjolnir would be a fatal blow to this dirge upon Midgard.”

“It’s too soon,” she argues back tiredly. Tired. She’s so tired. She just wants to lie down and sleep. Sleep for so long she never wakes up. “It’s too dangerous.”

“This complacency is too dangerous!” Thor snaps, his gaze finally falling on her, as though suddenly realising that she’s even there. “Every minute we spend here, those creatures grow stronger. We cannot let this place fall like we did Odessa!”

“We knew nothing of Odessa,” she sighs. Thor’s gaze is already slipping away from her again. She wonders what she would have to do to bring him back to the present, then feels guilty that she can’t really bring herself to care. “The fate of humanity doesn’t rest on our shoulders, you know that.”

“It rests on mine!” Thor snarls. His eyes flash, but Darcy isn’t afraid. Just so, _so tired_. “The Allfather sent me here for a reason and I have failed him!”

“Thor,” Darcy pleads, suddenly desperate. “If you go out there, you’ll die.”

Thor’s gaze returns to her and he reaches out to take her hand. “But Darcy,” he says pityingly, for once present in the moment and Darcy watches with growing horror as his fingers slip through her hand, incorporeal, “I’m already dead.”

Before her eyes, Thor wastes away, skin greying and peeling away until he’s nothing more than a grinning skeleton, its sockets lit by a raging inferno, licking up at his empty cranium. The room fills with the smell of rotting flesh and she gags. “You let me die, Darcy,” the skeleton rattles.

“ _No_ ,” she gasps, and she tries to push herself away from the table but he grips her wrist with an inhuman strength. “No! Thor, you let that Shade kill you! I tried to stop you but you _wouldn’t listen!_ ”

“You killed me Darcy,” it moans. Darcy tries to tug her hand out of its grip in vain, and its other hand flies out, gripping her forearm with bruising force. “You left me there; left my body to rot! It’s all your fault!”

“I couldn’t take you back!” she cries. The flames spread, dripping down its face like tears and running down its arms. She watches it race towards her with growing terror, the heat of the flames already hot on her face, but try as she might she can’t break free.

“You should have taken me back to her!” the creature that was once Thor screams, the inhuman sound of its voice echoing around her deafeningly.

“I’m sorry!” she weeps, and she falls to her knees, the table between them gone. “I’m sorry! I wanted to Thor-”

“Darcy,” the Thor-thing moans. “Darcy why didn’t you take my bones back to them?”

Darcy just shakes her head in despair, unable to summon the ability to defend herself. Her throat closes up, and she watches as the flames run up her arms, speeding towards her mouth.

“Darcy!” it screams at her accusingly, and her body jolts backwards. She gasps and her eyes fly open in shock. She flinches away from Evangeline’s grip on her shoulder and his hand flies back as though burnt. For the briefest of moments, Darcy swears she can feel ghostly hands on her wrists, but when she pulls them up and rubs at them frantically, she sees nothing but a few odd scrapes and the edges of her runes. She sobs with relief and tentatively, Evangeline reaches out for her again. Darcy clutches desperately at his hand, fingers digging into his wrist. He is a solid and real weight in front of her and Darcy breathes out shakily.

“Sorry,” she breathes. Her hands are shaking from misplaced adrenalin. “Did I wake you?”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Evangeline says quietly. She wonders what he’s been doing instead. “You sounded distressed.”

“Bad dream,” she grits out. Evangeline nods sagely, his gaze steady.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says shortly, not even bothering to spare the question a second thought. She lets go of his hand reluctantly and he moves back. “It was just a bad dream”

The corners of his lips twitch wryly. “I know all about those,” he confesses. Darcy’s shoulders sag. She’s sure he does, for all that she’s not caught him out with one yet. Evangeline looks away, staring intently at the foot of her bed as he chews at his bottom lip. The gesture is oddly childlike and innocent, and Darcy wonders what Hydra must have done to turn him into that fierce and savage man she’d found in Buffalo **.**

“I dream of him,” he says, voice so soft Darcy can scarcely be sure she hears him at all. She licks her dry lips.

“Steve?”

He nods and sighs, still avoiding her gaze. “Even before you found us. I’d dream of him. They never knew- they’d have wiped him from me if I told them. Used to wonder who this skinny punk with bruises on his hands was. Always snappin’ at me for something or other.”

“Your file said they kept you apart because you’d revert too soon.”

His eyes slide over to her, He smiles- a wry twist of the lips that scarcely could even be called one. “I don’t doubt it. Even out on the field, I remember feeling like there was something missing. I’d keep looking out for someone who wasn’t there. And then on the long jobs, when they’d let me sleep, there he was. Like comin’ home.”

Darcy bites at the inside of her cheek, curious. “Were you two together? Before the war?”

He sends her a funny look, before huffing a quiet laugh and glancing away again. “Dunno,” he murmurs, looking impossibly sad. “Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t matter if we were or not anyway; we’re not those two dumb kids anymore.”

 “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he sighs, and she marvels at his sudden chattiness. These past few days have been rife with surprises. “Ain’t nobody’s fault but Hydra.”

Darcy wonders if he truly believes that. She suspects it’s a no. She glances over at the window, covered in its thick drapes. A little light still seeps in. “How long did I sleep for?”

Evangeline shrugs. “About three hours?”

Only three. Damn. She feels like she could sleep for a week. Darcy glances over at the adjacent bunks and her eyes widen. “Where’s Steve?”

He shrugs again, a half-hearted lift of the shoulder. “Said he was hungry.”

“Oh,” Darcy relaxes back into her bed. She knows he’ll be okay, for all that he seems socially inept. “You can go too, if you’d like.”

Evangeline shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You should sleep.”

Darcy nods. She’s still exhausted and she feels like hell. Her muscles have tightened up whilst she slept, just like she’d predicted. She slips the blindfold back over her eyes- blackout curtains or not, it’s still too bright to not wear them- and works on regulating her breathing again. Before she can manage though, the image of Thor screaming at her returns and she sucks in a sharp breath.

A hand tentatively touches the top of her head and Darcy makes a soft, high pitched sound in surprise. “S’okay.” Evangeline murmurs. He must have sense her distress. His nails scratch lightly at her scalp and Darcy’s chest tightens; Natasha used to do the same, back when they were together. “I’ll take watch,” he promises her and Darcy bites her lip. His touch is gentle and soothing, settling her nerves in a way that so few other things can. She nods at him blindly.

“Thank-you,” she whispers, and she lets the soft, steady rhythm of his stroking send her back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #sorrynotsorry


	20. Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK-YOU SO MUCH to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter! I do hope to get around to replying to you all; it's one of my favourite things to do, really, and I'd have done it already, but at the moment I have limited internet available, and I can't afford to be doing things that mean the page is constantly reloading. So have a big hug and a thank-you from me; all of you are wonderful and amazing and I love y'all <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that this story now has a finite number of chapters listed! We're on the final legs of this story and I am so excited!!! XD

The sun beats down on the congregation with a familiar, but unwelcome ferocity. The glare makes those gathered squint around themselves, their shadows on the dry earth as sharp a contrast as the carefully dug holes in the ground. Darcy stands grimly somewhere towards the back of the crowd; the front is reserved mostly for family and close friends, of which Darcy is neither. She doesn’t mind. It would be crass of her to act as though she belongs closer, and the last thing she wants to do is draw undue attention to herself or the five conspicuous strangers that stand to her left.

The Asgardians stand out like a sore thumb, dressed in their full regalia; a sign of their respect, she’s told. Their armour is polished and untarnished, gleaming in the afternoon sun, all but screaming to those around them that they are alien. Different. More than a few wary looks are sent their way, despite having proved their mettle last night. Still… the five of them look more curious about the proceedings than truly remorseful, watching the silent crowd around them with unmasked fascination.

Darcy’s gaze can’t help but stray to the carefully wrapped bodies that rest on the empty earth beside their graves, ready to be lowered in when their rites have been made.

“… gathered here today,” the Zero addressing the crowd drones, their voice emotionless and flat, “to witness the lives of Jean Meadows, Charlie Meyers, Jesus Estrada, Sylvia Cafferty, Monica Harrows and Luis Mercer.  Each one a hunter, each one prepared to give their lives for the cause. Their sacrifice is not in vain; before them stands those who live on, carrying their legacy ever forwards.”

The Zero glances over them, their gaze shadowed by the thick black paste smeared over their forehead and beneath their eyes, their expression unreadable. Their arm reaches out to a middle-aged man at the front and the man joins them beside the first grave, momentarily clasping the Zero’s forearm. The lack of runes on his arm suggest he’s not a hunter. The man stands straight and proud, but the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp contrast, betraying his grief.

“I call forth Simon Meadows, husband of Jean, to speak of her life,” the Zero goes on. Their voice travels over them easily. They step backwards, hovering motionless behind Simon, whose gaze passes across the congregation quickly before falling on the wrapped body of his wife, the rough hessian fabric hiding her from view. He breathes out shakily and the crowd waits patiently for him to speak.

“My wife was a wilful, strong woman,” he speaks eventually, voice listless. “She was a policewoman before the Turning: losing our daughter did nothing to stop her from forging a path forwards. The weeks without her on the road were hard, but she would always return with a smile and story. She-” his voice wavers and Darcy’s eyes burn in sympathy. She glares up at the sky as the bereaved man carries on. “She didn’t care that the world would never be the same- Jean just wanted to make it a little easier for everyone else. She missed chocolate, and good wine, and couldn’t always keep her promises, but she tried her hardest. I loved her.”

Sensing he’s finished, the Zero motions to the men standing off to the side and they come forward, picking up the ropes coiled on the ground by Jean’s body, gently lifting and lowering her down into the grave with practiced moves. Simon wipes angrily at his eyes and glares down at his wife’s body as it descends and the ropes are retrieved, re-coiled and left back on the ground.

The Zero holds out a carved wooden bowl filled with earth- handed to them by one of their novices and Simon reaches out to take a handful of dirt, dropping it down onto the body below.

“We return Jean Meadows’ body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the Zero intones, their words reminiscent of those said in the old Christian burials **,** and they drop their own handful of earth down into the grave; it bursts into flames upon contact with the wrapped body and Darcy can almost taste the cleansing magic hanging in the air, the hairs on her arms prickling with it. “May her soul return to whence it came, her bones rest easy in the earth.” The ritual is a token gesture, really; with the battlegrounds thoroughly cleansed already, the purification rites are largely symbolic, but there’s not a single hunter among them who’s about to argue that fact. Better that than risk her soul being devoured by a Shade.

“May her bones rest easy in the earth,” Simon echoes. He breathes out slowly, gaze caught on the rough burlap fabric, before joining the crowd again.

Darcy listens to the rest of the sermon with only half an ear. She’s never been much for funerals- even less so since the Turning- and she can hardly bear to stand here in the blazing heat as friends and family step forwards to give their piece about the hunters, grief present in every uttered word. By the time the final grave has been purified and the man’s teenage daughter steps back into the crowd, the air is taut with magic and Darcy’s eyes burn uncomfortably with unshed tears. Sweat drips down the small of her back.

Evangeline, standing to her right with Steve, reaches out to take her hand and she starts. His answering smile when she turns to stare at him is barely present, but his skin is dry and warm against hers and his grip is firm. Darcy squeezes his hand in thanks and he nods, turning back to watch the Zero as they wrap up the service.

“So witnessed, we lay their bodies to rest,” they say. “Their journey is over, but may they live on.”

“ _May they live on_ ,” the crowd murmurs- as close to a prayer as many of them will ever make. The words seem to tingle on Darcy’s lips, and she remains behind even as the crowd disperses, flowing out of the rusted gates sluggishly. The men who lowered the bodies into the graves stay back to fill in the graves. She watches them emotionlessly, before her gaze strays over to the far right, to the shade below a warped and stunted tree. The Asgardians follow her gaze curiously, but noticing nothing out of the ordinary, they leave to follow the rest of the people out of the graveyard. Sif claps a hand on her shoulder as she goes and Evangeline lets go of her hand.

“Are all funerals like that?” he asks, a faint frown creasing his forehead. His nose is burnt a light pink. Darcy’s smile is weak. She can still feel the ghost of his fingers on hers and it’s unsettling.

“In New Triskelion they mostly are,” she explains. “Christianity fell out of favour with a lot of people- they wanted to know why they were denied a new kingdom on Earth after the end of the world.” She smiles wryly.

“The woman talking,” Steve says. “Who- what was she?”

She watches the men cover Monnie’s body with dirt, their movements mechanical and impersonal. “They were a Zero… it’s… well I don’t really want to call it a religion, because there’s not really a belief system attached to it really. They’re kind of like shamans? Or monks?” she scratches the back of her neck. “They’re mostly concerned with restoring balance to the world.”

“Why are they called Zero’s?”

“They give up everything when they join the order,” Darcy explains, her voice lowered. “Dedicate their lives- their whole identities- to ‘The Cause’.” She huffs a wry laugh. “Guess people aren’t that original when it comes to naming things.”

“Hm,” Steve hums. Darcy wipes the sweat from her forehead; she wishes she’d brought a hat along.

She motions to the gates. “You guys should go back to Barclay’s. I’ll be right behind you… I just wanted to give my respects to someone.” Evangeline regards her with canny eyes and Darcy shifts uneasily beneath his stare. “I’d… rather be alone,” she murmurs quietly. Steve nods sharply and tugs at Evangeline’s arm.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, and Evangeline lets him drag him away. Darcy watches them leave before wandering across the graveyard, walking between the graves; most are marked simply with a wooden cross, with outlines of rocks. Some superstitious part of her makes sure she doesn’t step over them, conscious of the people laid to rest six foot below. She stops beneath the shade of the old tree, grateful to be out of the sun, and crouches at the foot of the grave beneath it.

_Jane Foster & Magni, son of Thor_, the old wood cross reads, the paint in the carved lettering chipped and peeling from years of exposure to the elements. _1981-2016._

Darcy smiles down at her old friend. “Hey Janie,” she murmurs. There’s no answer, only the hushed talk of the men behind her, burying the newly dead. The flowers planted here have gone to seed, a mix of dry, papery petals and wispy, cottony seeds. With any luck they’ll bloom again next wet season, but for now they look sad and grey. Darcy nudges an out of place rock back in line with her boot. “It’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry.”

She glances over at the little marker beside Jane’s, still within the ring of stones, and a pang of bitterness lances through her. She still can’t put away the stupid, useless anger that comes along with thoughts of Magni. It’s something that comes back to her when she least expects it- the awareness that if it weren’t for the baby, Jane never would have died. Of course, she might have died at any other time, but she can’t shake the resentment, no matter how remorseful she feels when it happens.

She sighs and crouches down, tugging at the petals of a wildflower. “The Asgardian’s are here… I found… I found Mjolnir. Thor’s hammer. Do you remember the stories he used to tell about that thing?” she laughs softly and shakes her head. “I used to joke that he was compensating for something, but I tell you what Jane, if he was, then holy hell he was compensating for a _lot._ The hammer… it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.” Darcy traces a finger over a rune on her forearm absently. “This could really turn the tide, you know? If I work out how to use it right. If the Asgardians let me keep it.”

The world around her is silent. Darcy bites her lip. “I picked up a few strays too… I’m gonna train them, but it… terrifies me. I don’t know what I’d do if they end up killed too. Hoping I won’t fuck it all up, but they’re… they’ve been through a lot, but they’re tough. I reckon they’ll do well.” She snorts. “Better than we managed in the beginning at least. Here’s to hoping.”

A breeze rustles through the tree and Darcy closes her eyes. “I miss you,” she breathes, voice wavering. “Wish I didn’t have to do all this without you two. It’s lonely out there in the desert.”

As expected, Jane doesn’t reply. Darcy stands, brushing some non-existent dust from her jeans. “I’ll try to be back again soon,” she tells her old friend. “It’s hard, but I’ll- I’ll try. Promise.”

She turns around and starts. Loki stands several feet away, his amour replaced with a casual tunic and pants. She watches him warily. “Loki,” she greets him; they haven’t spoken to each other since the battle last night. She wonders how genial, cheerful Thor ever managed to get along with the man; keeping the peace with him has been an almost impossible task.

“Lady Darcy,” Loki says, his voice formal. His gaze wanders past her, resting on the grave behind her. She straightens defensively, expecting vitriol, but his voice when he speaks is careful, almost tentative. “Is that… my brother’s wife?”

“Yeah,” Darcy murmurs, too tired to be bothered correcting him. Thor and Jane had talked of it, but that was as far as they’d ever gotten. Darcy had always suspected Jane wasn’t too interested in getting married, and Thor adored her too much to push the issue. “And Magni.”

His gaze sharpens. “The child?”

“Yeah.”

Loki wanders over to her, and she notes with pleasant surprise that he takes care not to stray over the careful lines of stone. He stands beside her and stares down at Jane’s grave, face expressionless. Darcy watches him curiously; he looks as though he’s trying steel himself for something. She keeps quiet and waits him out.

“You fought well,” he says eventually. The admission looks like it costs his pride dearly to say. A small, petty part of her feels smugly satisfied.

“Thanks,” she says, unwilling to look too hard at whatever tentative truce exists between them. “So did you. That thing you did with that level four was impressive.”

He smiles at her wryly. “Thank-you.”

They fall silent again. Darcy searches for something to say, but small talk seems too petty and simple. She looks down at Jane’s grave again. Not for the first time, she wishes for a simpler time, when the worst she had to worry about was leaving an assignment to the last minute.

“I am… sorry.”

She stares up at Loki, startled. “What?”

He scowls at the ground like a child. “I apologise for my behaviour,” he grits out. Darcy blinks at him dumbly. “I was callous and… insensitive. It has become increasingly clear that life here has not been easy, but you have… done well with what you have.” The grim downwards curl of his lips is almost petulant, but Darcy is too shocked to call him out on it. The last thing she expected was for him to apologise.

“It’s fine,” she finds herself saying, still in shock. “You’re grieving.”

Loki glances over at her unhappily. “Grief is a poor excuse.”

“It isn’t here,” she murmurs, gaze straying back to the carved words on Jane’s cross. She thinks of Thor; his excessive drinking after Jane’s death. “It’s plenty good as an excuse.”

“Still,” Loki says reluctantly. “You are a skilled warrior, Darcy Lewis. For your experience. You have left quite an impression on my companions. And Mjolnir deems you worthy.”

“Careful there,” she says dryly. “One could almost confuse that for a compliment.”

“Indeed,” Loki says, and he shoots her a wry smile. He clears is throat and looks away again. “If I may… I would ask of you a favour.”

Darcy’s heart aches at familiar, archaic form of his speech. “What kind of favour?”

“I wish to see my brother’s grave, so I may pay my respects to him.”

“Oh,” she says, floored.

“If you would be so kind, I wondered if you may be our guide; it is clear you understand Midgard’s new environment better than we do.”

Darcy shifts, restless. Part of her wants to say no. Tell him ‘fuck you’ and walk away. She rarely ventures near Thor’s resting place, and after the dream she had this morning, the last thing she wants to do is wander back into that snake’s pit of a headspace. On the other hand… Loki is his _brother_. He deserves to visit the grave of his long dead sibling, and Thor’s memory shouldn’t just fade away into obscurity. Not after everything he did for them.

“It might take a few days- maybe a week to get organised,” she says slowly. Loki watches her as she speaks, face expressionless. “My truck needs to be serviced and we’ll have to get enough supplies, and I’ll probably have to see if there’s anyone around who’ll be willing to come along- those horses of yours won’t do much good out there, I hate to say it.”

“I can’t imagine he’s going anywhere,” Loki says dryly, “unless you’ve left out a crucial piece of information.”

Darcy stares at him blankly, taken aback by his attempt at humour, and Loki sighs. “Pretty sure he’s still dead,” she rasps, when the silence between them becomes uncomfortable.

“How long do you think it would take to find him?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know- maybe half a week? Longer, if we run into trouble.”

Loki nods slowly, and Darcy is grateful that he doesn’t seem impatient about it. She’s sure if she were in his position, she’d be crawling up the walls already, desperate to get out there.

“So, will you do it?”

“What?” Darcy shakes away her musings and nods. “oh- yeah, I’ll take you guys.” She attempts a smile but is sure it comes out as more of a grimace. “It’s the least I can do, I guess.”

Loki smirks, looking satisfied. “Thank-you,” he says simply. He turns away to leave. “I’ll inform the others.”

Darcy watches him leave, but makes no move to follow him. A ball of dread seems to be working its way into the pit of her stomach, though she’s not sure why. It should be a good thing, going to Thor’s grave. A piece of closure for her- for the Asgardians… but what with everything that’s happened the last twenty-four hours, she can’t shake her superstitious misgivings about the venture. And over a week stuck with Loki?

She shakes her head and sends Jane’s grave a worried look. Darcy doubts this trip will be pleasant in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Zero' in this chapter is based upon a conversation I had with rlw0810 in regards to organised religion in the Bones 'verse. You have her to thank for them ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and chat with me on [tumblr](http://cinnaatheart.tumblr.com/). I promise I'll only bite if you ask me to :P

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dry Bones Dancing as the World Turns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824002) by [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart), [SoupShue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoupShue/pseuds/SoupShue)




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